And While You Do That.

I know Troglodyte Homonculus was beyond enormous with a few people in Williamsburg and Missoula a few years ago, and since then it has probably per the formula dropped off the edge of streetwear oblivion, but that is sorta just my thing so when I saw this little navy pullover at the thrift store I just had to. I just just, just had to.

It's a terrible weakness I know, and all I had to tell myself was I deserve it, and it's only $8. Skip Starbucks tomorrow, and quit tearing yourself to pieces. Fretting over a pullover not unlike many other pullovers, but nonetheless necessary because it's a Friday and you have space in your bag. Not having to trapse back up Vine with a thrift store shopping bag actually seals the deal.

There was some wretched Apolis Activism stuff in gray, extra-huge and sad which they had priced twice as high as my TH score. I was seriously wounded when my thrift store shut down on Hollywood. Shattered. So many awesome finds in that store, and even after that bitch woman asked me to check my bag, and I turned and walked straight out instead, I still came back for more treasures.

Finding this store on Sunset is a happening of great moment, and the only real snag I see is coordinating synchronized trips to the thrift store, Amoeba and Trader Joe's. Tricky, and I can't end up like the guy with the trolley and the crates and the jacket. Christ no.

Don't Leave Me Alone.

There are times when discourtesy slaps you across the mother fucking face so god damned hard that it's difficult not to just leap or rather prance to the conclusion that there's a conspiracy to offend your sensibilities, or worse, completely ruin your lunch.

It happened, I thought it was personal, but apparently it's just this prank that the management company plays, and I wasn't playing back. They come up and sit with you at your table, while you're trying to enjoy your luncheon in private, possibly the most private table in all of the Watercourt. They don't ask if they can sit, or if you are expecting company (which you very well may), they just sit. Cows.

I tried to put on a good face, but I tell you if I didn't look like someone just took a shit in the middle of my living room then I'm a fucking unicorn.

I stared at my salad, my book, I pretended I was inside out, and then the fucking mine-shafts of composure I had been so assiduously drilling up until that point just collapsed under the weight of their own absurdity when the bovine-like creature placed her paw on my tote, and asked if she could move it so she could have a place to plow into her box of chili lime taquitos.

You see, I'm the type of person who can make it known to pretty much every conscious human being in the room, and some cats and dogs even, that I'm not having any of the bullshit that's all having about me, and I generally can do it in words that are unexpected, concise, but nonetheless flawlessly polite.

Yes. It happened, and it happened so fast that the poor wee heifer actually started to cry, and there may have been a point when I should have felt sorry for what had transpired, but I always have to remind myself that we are clinging to a thread. A tender thread.

I remind myself that we are struggling desperately to maintain standards of decorum which separates us ever so slightly from the likes of your more common farm animals.

Where should the line be drawn?

Because if someone tells me that it shouldn't be at luncheon then that person and I are going to seriously go round and round.

Shoot.

Poor wee heifer is actually fortunate it didn't get tazed. I read somewhere today they can turn an iPhone into a microscope. Turn that junk into a tazer or pepper spray or cattle prod and then maybe I might click on that link.

Maybe.

Not having it.

I would say that a stint in the country is long overdue.

________________________________

Junya Watanabe puffer at H Lorenzo. A store where I've bought things for people, but never for myself if you follow. They have an online store which appears refreshingly usable. Twitter account and all. Facebook, yeah, but I swear they're not pedophiles. Honest.

Pretty huge sales.

We Felt His Presence.

This isn't the first time.