who?
second july | eleven ante meridiem
He saw milk comin out but he didn't know how / Said, "Ah, I think I'll call it a cow"
My boss is in charge of the Stout Pork's M@r!n3 Cr3w, who putter about Puget Sound fixing docks and installing buoys and things of that sort. Today he gave me the latest issue of a local boating magazine that had done a story on them and the work they do. Remember, these are everyday divers who spend a lot of time retrieving rusty derelict crab boxes from the bottom of the Sound. Here's the opening paragraph:
April 2003 - It was going to be a beautiful day. Pink clouds began blushing deeper hues when the morning's sunrise peeked over the snowcapped Cascades. One group in particular looked reminiscent of two jousting knights and provided a moment to daydream about the days of lore, when knights in shining armor maintained truth, honor, and the king's law. A strong steed was required to carry their arsenal that included armor gilded shields, and swords. Fluttering banners were proudly held high over the smiling cheers of a hero's return from battle, while children marched behind the dusty procession with wooden swords drawn, and ready to take on a dragon or two. It was a celebration for a difficult job skillfully accomplished knowing all would be safe and secure.
"The days of lore"!! The reason this has put me in such a good mood this morning is that right now I'm designing a series of brochures to advertise their services, and the stakes have been raised. Now I have to include the king's law and the days of lore in addition to chemical spill clean-ups and float construction. There's a few other good ones. "What might appear to look like chaos..." is classic. "While communicating to the throttle-heavy captain [!] their level of success [depends] upon various 'hand' gestures..." Why is "'hand'" in quotes? Are they actually tentacled and it's all just a big cover up? Cause that should definitely go in the brochure as well.
Speaking of pointed shoes and bells, I keep having this dream that Bob Dylan is the new cast member on Frasier. He's been sentenced to house arrest in Frasier's apartment, with the little electronic ankle bracelet and everything. Hijinks ensue. It's sort of a meta-Seinfeld "...and then the judge ordered him to be my butler!" scenerio, but Bob ain't nobody's butler, and I don't think he did anything to Frasier; he's just there and can't leave. There's plenty of mumbled misunderstandings and "My son's not yellow, he's chicken!" and "Daphne, will you please treat Bob kindly and furnish him with tape." He's not there to be a musical guest; there's no music at all, he just hangs out as he is now, with his wrinkles and 1890s western dandy clothes, as this lovable enigma. What's strange is that these dreams aren't just recurrent, they're intense; I'm really there, living (watching) every minute of it, fully invested emotionally in the fate of Bob Dylan as he interacts with a bunch of obnoxious TV characters. Why Frasier I don't know. I don't watch it; you'd think that I'd be more likely to dream of Bob on Gilmore Girls or Baseball Tonight or one of those EAT MORE BUGS shows.
This morning I overheard one of the middle aged women in the next section over say I was "eye candy". *Licks finger, touches ass* Sizzle! Spittin rhymes cleans my teeth in the same way floss'll / Don't step to me baby girl cause I like em menopausal.