I'm Packing Too Much Velocity.

I've started to notice that I tend to choose which train to take based on whichever freak ass tweaker I feel I'm most prepared to deal with. There's Salt en Peppa tweaker with his salt en peppa hair. He usually comes very close to pushing me out of the way before bounding, yes bounding is an appropriate word, up the stairs. No one can even think of beating him up the stairs. He is the stair master, and I usually just sit back in awe. And then there's Scarecrow tweaker whom I know I've mentioned before. He's a precious little rail thin crew cut kinda accelerated middle aged thing who like salt en peppa tweaker races every where he goes. Everything is so urgent, but when he arrives he always comes up to my bench throws down his clutch and just paces back and forth on the platform. He honestly makes me want to scream my fucking guts out. Salt en Peppa just baffles me, but Scarecrow, he's something altogether different.

But I'm jetting up to Seattle this afternoon so I'll have all weekend to get sucked into the gravitational system of a whole different breed of tweak. Compadre is already there. He called me yesterday quite disgusted I had not sent him the memo on the Seattle uniform. Tired ass raw denim, razor skinny, preciously detailed belts, bandannas and ski-doos everywhere. I don't know what a ski-doo is I just made that up. It's certainly not as cut throat as Los Angeles, but don't tell them that. They're deadly serious, and think of themselves as nowhere else but on the front lines of the culture wars. Or at least that's what their lipstick says. They're eyeshadow screams I masturbate to Akira Kurosawa films. In all fairness though, I'm just as appalled walking down Robertson as I am walking on Capitol Hill.

On that note, I came across an interesting news item yesterday. It appears some "places" are instituting rules, laws or whatever against wearing your trousers too low. The low slung trouser revolution of the early 90s (and that just won't die) seems to have raised the ire of some who feel their sense of decency a tad bit more evolved than the rest of ours. Now don't get me wrong. I'm all for issuing citations, arrests, and straight-up police smackdowns for various fashion faux pas generally, and Louis Vuitton wearing specifically, but if a boy wants to show me his ass? Just step off right there Mary.

Well as long as I've made myself clear on that point I think it's safe to leave it there.