Fresh Paint
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Pay My Parking Ticket
This is the reason why I don't leave the house. You go out to paint a pretty picture at the beach and get a $50 ticket because you parked there to paint it:

So if anyone out there wants to buy this thing for $75.00 (the ticket plus materials and shipping), it's yours. I've had it. I'm never leaving the house again.

On the other hand, I saw an outing of elderly nuns sunning themselves on the sidewalk just next to the beach (their wheelchairs don't work well in sand). And heard a couple arguing with delightful wittiness. Sample:
"They want me to play background music."

"Background music? You are background music."

"In a massage parlor. They need to class the place up.'

"In a massage parlor? Let me get this straight. You're going to add a touch of class to a whore house?"


"Awwww... you're just making this all up. And if you're not, I'm going to have to kill you very, very slowly."

"Ring, Ring"
Wait a minute. Phones on the beach don't actually say "ring ring". I stop writing all this down and look back over at them. The woman is standing, one hip out, with a fake phone to her ear, the man leaning back with a newspaper with what looks like a script on his lap. Now the woman is chattering away on the imaginary object next to her ear and I feel so very happy, because I haven't found out about the parking ticket yet. So I happily paint away, listening to this charming couple as they turn more and more absurd.

If anyone knows the play, let me know.

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