Have you never heard of No shirt No shoes No service?
Yeah – from the seventies. Back when you could put a sign up front that said NO MEXICANS.
For the first time in my life, I have been asked to leave a place of business for lack of shoes. This amuses me to no end under the circumstances as I have been a regular customer for the last six years at this particular shop. Not only have I the habit of wearing no shoes as a matter of course, I have in the past also come in with no shirt. Sweaty middle of summer, cooked feet on the pavement and it’s nighttime summer. Sticky, hot, and salt tasting skin, believe me when I say that if they had reason to comment, it would have been then. Keep me where I belong people, let me pad around. No! The young impeccable man who informed me that I wasn’t welcome without footwear doesn’t like me now. I didn’t tell him off, not exactly. I just turned a little on him without saying anything in particular. The way I do, with a grin that kneads into sarcasm with a bloody knife. It’s worth so much more that way. A comment on his hair and he’s ruined. The facade of polite dropped utterly and all I did was compliment it. I think I’m a bitch and I’m not from your country.
Tell me I should have a concience. My fish died today.
Winged Migration proved its excellance by being wonderful to watch in spite of being shown on a rumply sheet screen in a cold orange lit park. Chilly doesn’t describe the numb fingers nor toes, though maybe blue does. A thank you to Ethan for being warm and a biologist.
Speaking of movies nights, I have these pictures to finish the set…
this was sadly not part of my Placebo night, but taken a few weeks ago for the sheer technotart geekery
during…
half empty as everyone’s taking a breather between CDs…
the smokers on break…
fanservice…
