It don't matter to Jesus

Hit Flagstaff this weekend: Matt and the gang. Worked on fixed gears, talked about 3-d space time, "feeling" in poetry, guitar tones we like/don't like (like: son volt; don't like: anything on the radio), and about how Cap'n Jazz had three amazing (truly amazing) guitar players in the band--and only one was a guitar player. Another snippet from Falstaff:

Sitting downtown at Late for the Train (where I used to be a barista) Bianca, Matt, and I looked out the window as we downed espresso. Across the street walked a few lame-ass faux hipster kids with the dirty white canvas shoes and slouchy shoulders. I said Hey you can't be a hipster asshole and get away with it in Flagstaff--what are those kids doing... they look like they're trying to be The Strokes or something...

...next morning I look in the free weekly Flag. rag to see that one of the guitar players from The Strokes had played in town the night before. The picture above the story positively ID'd the bastards in question as the same from the day before in downtown. Son of a bitch, I say. Son. of. a. bitch.

TBird's birdpiece: 2yearold-style

I keep wanting to post to this guy and then I'll end up feeling guilty for not answering an email for work or something and I'll bail. By the time I remember that I'd wanted to post, I'm taking a crap or driving down St. Mary's or walking down the road hoping that the three womans-is giggling behind me aren't laughing at some sort of ass-sweat that's somehow soaked thru my ti-tight jeans without the mental comfort of the absorbing power of the springtime-color'd undergutchies. They're probably just laughting at something else. But maybe they aren't.

They aren't. And now I've been swimming consistantly for the first time in a few years. As a native Phonician I'm supposed to shun sunscreen (foolishly)--like it's a mark of belonging to the desert to not neet that crap. But, you know, you gotta slather that stuff on the inks and all, so I've been rolling thru it like crazy these days. Esp. in the sunny sun at the pool--if I don't put it on I become too freaked out to actually swim, like Jesus' face will somehow blot out before I get back to the locker room. And the locker room: I feel like there are some pretty standard rules that govern that world, unwritten from Roman times up until the early 1990s when the TV show Seinfield went public with them or something: you don't see anyone else in the locker room or talk to them unless the two of you are doing the same thing, i.e. both changing, both pissing, both counding the rolls on the belly. If one dude's changing and another dude's texting on a cellphone--no talking.

Well, the other day I'm changing after the old swim-thing and this dude comes up and is like, Dude, what's all that shit on your back? Is that a tat?
Yes
A real one?
Yes
Who is it?
Jesus and Judas
(To other clothed dude) Hey man, come over here and look at this dude's tat.
(Clothed Dude knows he's breaching the rule; face looking away mostly) Yeah. Cool
Did you draw that?
No
...
...
(I get tapped on the shoulder by 1st clothed guy) Hey man, nice tattoo. --the guy then reaches over to shake my hand and I'm still standing there naked.

I don't like this sort of thing.