PRETTY GOOD YEAR

"heard the eternal footman bought himself a bike to race."

we did you one better, tori. or one worse, which ruins the idiom (or [maybe?] does it one better) but is more evocative of my feelings toward what's going to go down this afternoon. i don't race (remember?). well, i might this weekend, but there are circumstances, and no one really rides very fast in your periphery during a cyclocross race if you let yourself start slow and at the back. but i don't usually race, so my reference to those lyrics doesn't have much to stand on from the outset. plus, they would have described me better, oh...maybe five years ago.

some of those racists sure are sexy, though. i rode past a certain tiny one in pink and blue last night on my way down alberta st. from the new seasons on 33rd. he was probably on his way home from the blind date at the dairy. there are probably pictures online. (read into that.)

i haven't been able to make any spectating appearances at the blind date series because of regular wednesday evening commitments (read into that if you can), and had a really awkward time later on trying to navigate a conversation about those commitments with the guy at the video store who may or may not have tried to engage me in flirtations in the past. "so, are there, you know, any pretty girls or guys in your dance class?" tell me, what should i read into that?

they can all have a ride after this evening. a man from the 509 is coming in a big truck to deliver the 'looking good in pants' trophy husband catcher. he'll be here after three. my shame far outweighs your scorn, i assure you.

get ready, trannies. it's pimping time: very, very literally construed.