Dogs, jeans, messages

A German shepherd, two Dobermans, and a rottweiler gave me and Rhymes with Tim the savage junkyard dog routine yesterday as I finalized the route of my AMC “Brooklyn’s west coast” walk, and damned if we didn’t see a dozen feral cats, too, most of them variations on the theme of black and white. While walking along those quiet Red Hook streets (before the abomination of Ikea brings in more filthy cars), Rhymes with Tim, sure that Tarantino torture chambers were right behind the walls, said he thought this would a good place for attack by zombie. I mean, he claims to live in the East Village, but sometimes I’m not so sure. Needless to say, he didn’t say hello to any of the snarling, fenced-in brutes, as I did with reckless abandon. Puppies!

(Red Hook, according to the diseased mind of H.P. Lovecraft: that "maze of hybrid squalor" with "swarthy, sin-pitted faces," a "babel of sound and filth, and sends out strange cries to answer the lapping of the oily waves at its grim piers and the monstrous organ litanies of the harbour whistles." Oooooooooo. )
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My white linen jeans are dead. The first sign was a wearing away just to the lower left of the fly placket. Stress fracture? I could finesse that, initially, since it wasn't all that noticable . But now there are fraying spots on both sides of the fly, a little too obvious. And taking them from the dryer this evening, I noticed two big ass holes in the seat (as they said in Queen Victoria’s day). These babies will never leave the house on my hide now, damn it. There were a really comfortable pair and I have it on trustworthy report that my ass looked damn good in them. I suppose that’s what happens when you buy H&M shoddy.

Tomorrow, I do a counter-Cheever and head out of the city for a gig. To Stamford for the day. I’ve hardly worn pants in months, since I’m all about shorts in summer, so I’m going through the pile to figure out something corporate but cool, casual but businesslike, professional yet bennie-less consultant, yadda-yadda-yadda. No tie, at least, but it’s going to be breezy in the ‘burbs tomorrow, so I’ll wear my blazer. Instant karma, that. A man's secret weapon, his blazer. Now, should I wear my lucky rocket ship underpants?
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I sent the EBP an email message on Friday and this evening I called, leaving a message of invitation. Here's looking at you, kid.