Lots of Monkeys

Playing pool yesterday reminded me of jeannette Lee. Rawr.

You know what’s a funny word? “Courting.” I think I’ll use the word more
often.

June. That month most favored by me. The sixth month. The blue month.

Today, the station air lies still and stale, stirred only by the passing train to Glenmont.

June has a significance for me because it is my birth month. It also marks the halfway point of the year. A time for reflection. It marks no season, has a holiday of import, and is regarded as a hot, humid, wet month.

For me, also, a melancholy month, ever since I stopped celebrating my birthday.

I went hunting for a party animal. This was probably due to Loren’s enthusiasm, and an urge to satisfy my own curiousity.

Location: Wisconsin Avenue, snuggled between the Post Office and Cafe Ole.

Gratuitous ass shot.

There are more pictures, but I’m most satisfied with this particular shot.

I’m not quite sure if I’m for this or not. (When I say, “this,” I mean, “naked chickens.”)

On the one hand, it would mean less waste.

On the other hand. . . I mean–look at them.

It’s always the last one that makes you stay. You’ve got two dollars in your pocket, it’s too early in the morning, and you’ve got work the next day. But you look up, and there she is.

Maybe it’s her face.

Maybe it’s because it reminds you of someone else–somebody from a couple of years ago–or maybe she reminds you of someone you haven’t even met yet.

Whatever the reason is, it doesn’t matter because now she’s twisted your arm so hard that you have to stay. It’s always her fault.

And you say things to yourself. Things like, “Well, maybe just one more drink–payday is tomorrow night after all and it’s not too late.”

And the waitress comes by and you take out that twenty, the one for the cab home, and you order another drink.