So, I'm not scared to go out in the sun anymore. The moon though? Still not a fan. Yeah, I watched that recently. As I stood in the steamy restroom, I heard an Australian accent coming from another room, and it weren't the Pepsi bottle kid. It was Kangaroo Dundee talking about winching wee kangaroos. His license plate is ROORESQ, which cracks me up. Anyway, Nancy had another day off. Is that trouble I can smell brewing? I think so.
Oh! The Grammys! Macca managed to keep his dignity - first time for everything I guess. Daft Punk, Nile Rodgers, Stevie Wonder and Pharrell did good with Get Lucky, but I can't help but feel the performance was a bit...patchy? Under rehearsed maybe? Still, good stuff. I'd make some joke about rescuing the worthy ones then bombing the Staples Center, it would catch so many cunts, but I'm scared Tom Daley will throw another hissy fit and I'll get arrested. And that's all I have to say, about that.
I wrote this, Nancy picked Sheba up from work, we went to get my not-so-secret birthday surprise, then off to Tempe beach park for a change. It's not quite the same without the hustle and bustle of mad Arizonians with ice boxes getting soaked, but that was to be expected. There were more wasps than you could shake a stick at, if you so desired.
A final stop at Fry's was in order, I guess. I got myself lost in the car park for a short while, but somehow we made it home in the end. Some yardbird, as I've been poisoned into calling it, then we had ourselves our fun by winding up poor little Tatumn. Poor little nothing, whatever the female equivalent of Damien, spawn of the fucking devil is, that's her. Bless her.
We had to actually come up with something to do this day, so we wound up at another park. The football pitch looked white under the floodlights, I didn't realise people played on sand when off the beach, was quite a thing to see. Basketball courts filled with players, a haunted-looking American football field, a still lit baseball field, there was a real sense of...I dunno, ambition in the air, would never see anything like it back home. Ever.
We were in a certain house without a certain Sheba. As we sat peacefully, learning about crazy women who stalk and murder Burger King workers and battling it out on Brain Games, there was a knock on the side door. "Who is it?" No answer. A gunshot. Debbie answers the front door. We soon follow through. Not like that. It's Kendal. He's out of prison twenty days. He has a gun. His lips are white. He's clearly on something. He wants a taxi. Now. To be continued.
"Not one of my kind of people, though that's part of our lives"
In a bit.