shanmonster | I'm not home

I'm at the radio station, right now, overhearing conversations about white trash kids in a white trash shopping mall. These folks include 12-year-olds bumming cigarettes, skateboard boys swearing and fighting with invisible enemies, and so forth. Although this is fairly interesting, I think I preferred hearing about the time a drunk man pulled out his meat wand and took a leak on the treat-of-the-week display in a downtown McDonald's.

I'm killing time until f00 is through work, and then we're both off to the Socrates Café uptown. I'm not sure what the topic du jour is, but we'll figure something out. I don't exactly feel cerebral today, though.

I've been working sporadically on a write-up about my adventures in Moncton. I must remember to writ e about the incredible cat piss woman. She was a stench and a half. I've included my experiences with wildlife, but not with the enormous flock of sandpipers I watched wheeling about in Hopewell Cape by the flowerpot rocks.

The last time I was at Hopew ell Cape was when I was in junior high school. I walked along the rock-covered shore with my Dad, and I saw a really interesting pebble. I picked it up--it felt good in my hand--and I put it in my pocket. Dad then said, "Put that down."

"Why?" I asked.

"If everyone picked up a rock, there wouldn't be a beach left."

He was serious, too. I'm sure that if every person who ever lived picked up a suitcase full of rocks, that beach would still be rocky. My Dad is on crack.