Sunday in the Park with Zach
Anyone who knows me well knows that I attract crazy people. If there is a crazy person in the immediate vicinity, he or she will seek me out like a fat kid seeks cake. Today I was minding my own business in Rittenhouse, waiting for Katie to arrive after I had secured us a bench. In the sun! As I was sitting there, a tall, skeletal looking figure bounded across the path and of course plopped on my bench next to me. He had just taken off a black leather jacket to show off his gray sleeveless half-shirt which asked the question “Are you curious?” My answer was a resounding No. The scuffy man sat down on my sweatshirt which I strategically placed to my left so that everyone would know that this bench was reserved for my friend, or I just wanted to be alone, or I didn’t want some crazy smoking, scuzzy man with horrible black jeans to practically sit on me. This man did not receive any of these hints, and I was too shocked or nonplussed (I am not sure which) by his gall to telegraph them to him specifically and expressly.
Said man was French. Or at least he spoke French on the phone. Loudly. He screamed on his cell phone to several people before lighting up a cigarette and blowing, I think, directly in my face. I actually thought he was screaming to people across the path. “Hah-looooo!” He swung his leather jacket around after his flashlight fell out (?!) and didn’t apologize. As was his custom, I assume, he wore no deodorant and consequently smelled like morning armpit. I honestly thought I was being Punk’d or on Boiling Points. When Katie showed up, I didn’t even know what to tell her, so we moved to another area of the park. The day was salvaged as I laid on my back and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. However, I was disappointed in myself for not saying anything to him. I wish I were capable of the white-knuckled rage some people wear so well. I inwardly resovled it by convincing myself that someone might have given me a hundred bucks had I waited long enough. I hate him.
The Temple Barristers’ Ball on Friday was a good time. It turned out that I knew more people there than I thought I would. I drank and lot, and I danced a lot. The marriage of those two activities plus a slippery floor and bad shoe choice resulted in my ending up on my ass on the dance floor. I fell. I said I was a good date, not a classy one. I really should stay away from open bars. That said, I was able to keep away from the crazy couple, one half of which would love to make me a homewrecker. My date was lovely, a vision in light blue and gold draped in a jean jacket. We were the Sid and Nancy of the dance. And her other date loved her, too. They were the Ron and Nancy of the dance. I ended up ruffling some feathers of a good friend. I made out with his best friend from home in the basement of my ex-boyfriend’s friend’s house. I know. Good times, good times. Chop has become a really good friend. I felt bad making him upset (in my defense, I didn’t know it would), but his friend was really cute. And the cute guy offered me gum. Hello?! You can't turn that down.
I went to my first yoga class at my new gym today, and the instructor talks like a porn star. Everything she said was sweet and breathy and sounded like it was going to end in orgasm. It was kind of hot. And she paired us up with people for partners’ poses. I was paired with a cute guy in a tank top, who kept asking me if everything felt ok. It did. Most sexually charged, erotic yoga class ever. I left feeling invigorated, just as the schedule description said I would.
There was a full-out cat fight in front of my apartment today. The participants were two amazing African-American women, young, dressed well, quite erudite from what it seemed (besides the clawing and bitchslapping). Then they started shrieking, pulling weaves and the one in magenta chased the one in white, in heels, natch, down the street. People gatheree on the street to watch, exchanging glances that ranged from pure horror to sweet surrender. It's the city of brotherly love, after all, not the city of sistah-ly love. Cancel the search for best Spruce Street experience; the high watermark has been reached.
On that note. http://www.savetoby.com/ He’s either a lunatic, genius or both. And I love him.
Said man was French. Or at least he spoke French on the phone. Loudly. He screamed on his cell phone to several people before lighting up a cigarette and blowing, I think, directly in my face. I actually thought he was screaming to people across the path. “Hah-looooo!” He swung his leather jacket around after his flashlight fell out (?!) and didn’t apologize. As was his custom, I assume, he wore no deodorant and consequently smelled like morning armpit. I honestly thought I was being Punk’d or on Boiling Points. When Katie showed up, I didn’t even know what to tell her, so we moved to another area of the park. The day was salvaged as I laid on my back and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. However, I was disappointed in myself for not saying anything to him. I wish I were capable of the white-knuckled rage some people wear so well. I inwardly resovled it by convincing myself that someone might have given me a hundred bucks had I waited long enough. I hate him.
The Temple Barristers’ Ball on Friday was a good time. It turned out that I knew more people there than I thought I would. I drank and lot, and I danced a lot. The marriage of those two activities plus a slippery floor and bad shoe choice resulted in my ending up on my ass on the dance floor. I fell. I said I was a good date, not a classy one. I really should stay away from open bars. That said, I was able to keep away from the crazy couple, one half of which would love to make me a homewrecker. My date was lovely, a vision in light blue and gold draped in a jean jacket. We were the Sid and Nancy of the dance. And her other date loved her, too. They were the Ron and Nancy of the dance. I ended up ruffling some feathers of a good friend. I made out with his best friend from home in the basement of my ex-boyfriend’s friend’s house. I know. Good times, good times. Chop has become a really good friend. I felt bad making him upset (in my defense, I didn’t know it would), but his friend was really cute. And the cute guy offered me gum. Hello?! You can't turn that down.
I went to my first yoga class at my new gym today, and the instructor talks like a porn star. Everything she said was sweet and breathy and sounded like it was going to end in orgasm. It was kind of hot. And she paired us up with people for partners’ poses. I was paired with a cute guy in a tank top, who kept asking me if everything felt ok. It did. Most sexually charged, erotic yoga class ever. I left feeling invigorated, just as the schedule description said I would.
There was a full-out cat fight in front of my apartment today. The participants were two amazing African-American women, young, dressed well, quite erudite from what it seemed (besides the clawing and bitchslapping). Then they started shrieking, pulling weaves and the one in magenta chased the one in white, in heels, natch, down the street. People gatheree on the street to watch, exchanging glances that ranged from pure horror to sweet surrender. It's the city of brotherly love, after all, not the city of sistah-ly love. Cancel the search for best Spruce Street experience; the high watermark has been reached.
On that note. http://www.savetoby.com/ He’s either a lunatic, genius or both. And I love him.
posted by ZRW @ 11:13 PM
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