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Today |
.Thursday night's San Luis Obispo holds a weekly Farmer's Market. The City closes down the entire downtown stretch of Higuera Street so people can mill around and purchase locally grown products … almonds mostly. It's a big deal for the locals because there's literally nothing else to do in this town. People hole up in their dark houses waiting out each week, their hardons growing ever larger for the big event. I heard it started sometime in the late 70s after people got killed by kid's drag racing up and down Higuera. It's beginning's aren't as quaint as you thought, eh Tourist Bob? Last night's F.M. was pretty typical. Many a fruit and vegetable were sold. Farmer's Market is a big venue for the warring political factions here in SLO. They set up booth's real close to each other and try to recruit as many townsfolk as they can for each party. "Bush is the greatest!" exclaims the Republican. "Bush puts black children and kitten's in burlap sacks and drowns them in the crick!" whines the Democrat. "Gay sex for all!" shouts the Proud Parents of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender Children and the Libertarians. The bread in my refrigerator has been there almost two weeks. The thing is I really want some toast and peanut butter this morning. Yet, I'm afraid the bread's going to be moldy. If I don’t make my move now, spores of mold might have the chance to develop. If I wait half an hour to make breakfast, I doubt that the mold spores would appear… but I'm not willing to take that chance. I'll be back. Mmmmm, delicious. Coffee and Peanut Butter Toast - the breakfast of mother fucking champions. No mold spores on the bread either … that was the best part. No spores that I could see anyway... I might not be feeling so well. Anyway, walking home through the Mission plaza last night, I encountered the elusive "sleeping bag ghost." He's not really a ghost. Basically, it was a skeezy hobo sitting in on a bench with a dirty sleeping bag over his head and body. Always refusing to accept reality in almost any situation, I pranced around the hobo saying, "Holy shit, it's a sleeping bag ghost!! Whoooooooo Ohooooooo, sleeeepiinnggg baggg ghooooost." Well, apparently sleeping bag ghost's always have a shiv handy because that mother fucker almost shanked me real good. Hobos ensconced in flannel sleeping bags can move pretty quickly when they want to… Yeah, well, fuck you, you wily-assed apparition. Take her easy.
It's insane, this guys taint - 2004-12-07 |