Total Cranky-Pants this morning. No reason really. Good night at work, 'specially for a lazy Sunday in what still insists on being summer in the French Quarter. Asshole Factor of 1.3%, which is uncommonly low for my graveyard shifts. Made some Ramen money. Just tired, I guess. Happy drunk people in the bar this morning. Two couples, one from, like, California, dude -- one from Oh-Hyee-Oh. I watched in horror as those kooky holidayers hooked up, negotiated for a while, then decided to go back to a hotel to do some good ole' fashioned wife-swapping. Blech. How very -- leisure-pants-and-hi-ball.
My wretchèd (okay, not really, it's just that I'm about to begin bleeding from the vagina apparently, and the cramps are blighting my disposition) morning was saved by a few of my belovèd reggalers, the ever-dapper Ricky Lane, the ever-dour Churchy, the ever-in-each-other's-company Lloyd & Camille, some ever-ubiquitous gutterpunk types that, like weeds, you just can't seem to kill, among others.
Riding home, mumbling bland incoherencies under my breath, I biked past a scraggly construction worker squatting on a curb on St. Charles Ave. He looked like he pretty much hated everything about his job and his life, and I felt better by comparison.
The Downtrodden can be so useful, don't you find?