Low

The sky this morning was a robin's egg blue, pastel with whimsical white wisps drifting across. A quiet aesthetic until an SUV nearly runs a light and hits me - and I mean me, not my car this time, because I'm running, as I do. We exchange pleasant fuck yous and exasperated looks and then are on our respective ways, cheerily again. Someday, I'll learn that shouting profanity at people in large vehicles is not a wise life choice. Someday, though, was not today.

Perhaps I was tired? That would be an out, of sorts, an excuse that, if I didn't know my tendency towards juvenile language under any circumstances, I might take. (Didn't I get a degree in English? Don't I proofread things for a living? Shouldn't my vocabulary be so extensive that "fuck" is phased out? Nope.)

But I was out late last night - shocking! - at a bar - shockinger! - drinking water - as expected! There was a rather awful sludge metal band playing in one room, and a chubby white guy with ass-length dreadlocks playing early 90's rap, for the most part, in the adjacent room. When the band stopped playing, a swarm of denim jackets invaded the rap room; the DJ responded to the influx of PBR and cigarettes with Lil' Jon. The response was rampant enthusiasm, somehow. I didn't know that my life wouldn't be complete without seeing some guy with a Goatwhore patch on his (sleeveless, with red-painted metal spikes on the shoulder) denim jacket "get crunk", but now I can't imagine life otherwise.

Soon after, I went to bed. Then, I got up and went to work, on very little sleep. Then I ran. Then I almost became roadkill. So now we're caught up. But, I'm out of things to say, because my jogging exploits are far less interesting than a crew of would be Motorhead roadies dancing furiously and wholly without irony to "Get Low".

So thanks for that, Lawrence. Thanks for your lovely denizens and townie bars.