Presenting myself like a common baboon.
Picture by Derek “Girlwatcher” Sapienza.
This time last year I was getting ready for our first date. At dinner I talked too fast and hit myself in the face with a sandwich because I literally forgot to open my mouth, at the Bill Orcutt show I realized I probably shouldn’t sit in that skirt, at the beach I was relieved by darkness but afraid I didn’t know enough about Don Cherry, in the car I jumped out still barefoot and ran away before it Got Weird and I went home crushed, convinced I’d blown it, that he was too smart and handsome and interesting for me. Luckily I had stolen a lock of his hair, placed it in a heartwood box along with a piece of rose quartz anointed with a drop of my blood and burned it at the full moon to trick him into loving me. KIDDING. Luckily he likes awkward goofy girls and I like boring boys and now he’s stuck with me for that word I used to spit at, forever.
ANYWAY if you’re not busy barfing over this, he just started a new blog and it’s really good. It’s got space and baseball and cars and reggae and the 60s and all that other good manly shit you love, but in a non-oppressive way I promise. Go follow him at JDS/2. He’s cooler and more handsome than me.
A bro caught us writing our initials and “Father Yod was here” in this tree, and kindly offered to take a picture. You can see the guilt in my face.
(Taken with instagram)
