Have you ever had the experience where you write something truly inspired and brilliant? And for some reason, some ridiculous reason that would baffle the mind, you type it directly into the Blogger post page. And then, when you go to post said brilliant piece of prose, Blogger asks for your login and password. So you think, I’m going to hit the back button and save that brilliant piece of word smithery to another document so as not to lose it. And when you go to the previous page, it is gone. GONE! Gone forever, Clementine. Has that ever happened to you? Me neither.
That was the start of this day. I tried to re-construct it, but it was all in vain. The magic was gone.
Since I don’t have anything more interesting, and apropos of nothing other than I just like it, I’ll give you this picture of the Manhattan Bridge as seen from a park in DUMBO.
For those of you who don’t know, DUMBO is an acronym for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. It is a formerly industrial, presently mid-gentrification, artsy neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. One of my good friends and fellow Thanksgiving revelers is the manager of a bar/restaurant/nightclub there.
On my first trip to DUMBO, we took this picture one middle of the night after attempting to drink all the wine in the cellar. The other highlight of the evening was convincing a group of not so smart Triple A League baseball players that my sister was a man, now living as a woman. If you ever saw my sister, there is really not a question in a thousand years what her gender is. She is stacked with cartoon Wonder Woman curves.
My sister was talking to them and I was talking to the bartender. One of them got my attention I heard my sister say, “No, I am not a man. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and ask Fresh Hell, she’s my sister and she would know.”
So the not so smart baseball boy asked, “Hey, she is a man, isn’t she?”
Not knowing the full context of their conversation, beyond my sister indicating that I was indeed her sister and that she is unencumbered by a Y-chromosome, I looked him square in the eye and said, “Of course she’s a man.” And by some act of bacchanalian Voodoo, I managed to keep a straight face as my sister’s distorted in disbelief. Eventually I fessed up and told them the truth, but at that point they were convinced otherwise.
She is a tall lady (5’10”) with very large hands, but seriously, she is all woman.
Anyhow, it was amusing and I like bridges, so there you have it.
Something about steel girders.
That was the start of this day. I tried to re-construct it, but it was all in vain. The magic was gone.
Since I don’t have anything more interesting, and apropos of nothing other than I just like it, I’ll give you this picture of the Manhattan Bridge as seen from a park in DUMBO.
For those of you who don’t know, DUMBO is an acronym for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. It is a formerly industrial, presently mid-gentrification, artsy neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. One of my good friends and fellow Thanksgiving revelers is the manager of a bar/restaurant/nightclub there.
On my first trip to DUMBO, we took this picture one middle of the night after attempting to drink all the wine in the cellar. The other highlight of the evening was convincing a group of not so smart Triple A League baseball players that my sister was a man, now living as a woman. If you ever saw my sister, there is really not a question in a thousand years what her gender is. She is stacked with cartoon Wonder Woman curves.
My sister was talking to them and I was talking to the bartender. One of them got my attention I heard my sister say, “No, I am not a man. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and ask Fresh Hell, she’s my sister and she would know.”
So the not so smart baseball boy asked, “Hey, she is a man, isn’t she?”
Not knowing the full context of their conversation, beyond my sister indicating that I was indeed her sister and that she is unencumbered by a Y-chromosome, I looked him square in the eye and said, “Of course she’s a man.” And by some act of bacchanalian Voodoo, I managed to keep a straight face as my sister’s distorted in disbelief. Eventually I fessed up and told them the truth, but at that point they were convinced otherwise.
She is a tall lady (5’10”) with very large hands, but seriously, she is all woman.
Anyhow, it was amusing and I like bridges, so there you have it.
Something about steel girders.
