The Wisdom of G

Driving back from the SCA event this weekend, discussing some of the many and colourful people we had met, when Gareth utters this gem of wisdom:

"Sometimes," he said rather thoughtfully, "you just need a guy to shut the fuck up."

Amen, brother Gareth. Amen.

"Never" trust a "bitch"

 "--you know," my buddy Brian says. "She was the one with the boobs."

I nod, vaguely, then pause.

"...boobs?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "When we walked into the house, she was the one with no shirt on."

Another pause.

"...there was a woman with no shirt on?"

"Yeah!" Brian says, staring at me with something akin to amused horror. "You were talking to her! She had her boobs all...just...THERE. NAKED. BOOBS."

I stared at him.

"I totally didn't notice."

Brian sighed and put his hand on my shoulder. "Rosemart," he said. "You are SO heterosexual."



On that note, I found this fabulous piece of graffiti.

I would dearly like to know what the quotation marks are trying to imply.

Trust "no" bitch, my friend.

Words to live by.

Never trust a man with a gingerbread house and no shoes.

I feel like this needs to be an addendum to my previous post, as it happened during the same day.

So it's late. Night has fallen. I have hung around with Lester until the mall closed, then rode a million miles of transit back to my neck of the woods. To save some pennies I'd ridden my bike to the station, and so here I was, at 10pm, riding the long sloping uphill ride home.

When out of the bushes extends an arm.

And on the end of that arm, a hand, and on that hand, a gingerbread house.

"HOLY SHIT A GINGERBREAD HOUSE," I declared with elegance and style, breaking rather suddenly.

"Yes," says the man to whom the arm belongs. "...you wanna piece?"

I pedal slowly past the gingerbread house.

My mother always said: Never trust a man with a gingerbread house and no shoes.

And sure enough, this man was not wearing any shoes (though the rest of him was mercifully clothed).

"No," I said, with some regret because I do enjoy a good gingerbread. "I think I'm okay. But thanks."

"Are you sure?" the man says, smiling invitingly and waggling the gingerbread house invitingly. "It's full of LSD."

"Ah," I say. "Yes. I see. That's probably a good reason for me to NOT have any."

He just shrugged, completely apathetic, as I pedalled faster. "Alright," he said with a cheerful wave of his free hand. "Have a nice night!"

Yes. Have a nice night, my LSD gingerbread toting friend.


~The Destroyer.

Never trust a man who starts a conversation with: "Shit, there's a lot of cops around."

So Vancouver is awesome. I feel like I need to start my post by saying that. I've had watermelon on the beach and soaked my pants in the ocean, seen Singing in the Rain on the big screen (with a row of gay men who appreciated Gene Kelly's firm dancing thighs just as much as I did), eaten at Japadog, tried four new beers and two new gins, shot arrows at a hundred yards and been interviewed by Global Television about the olympics (to which I mouthed off incoherently about hockey and generally made a mess of things).

Which leads me to today.

Never mind how, because the lead-up is boring exposition, but let it be known that Rosemart the Destroyer does NOT like jostling crowds, and Metrotown is little more than one massive jostling crowd.

So that is why I found myself in a little perfectly manicured park, a couple blocks from the mall, stretched out on my belly in the moss, listening to my iPod and enjoying (read 'enjoying') a rousing game of IS. IT. FOOOOOOOOD?! with items I'd picked up in the Asian market.

And it was there, as I was gazing through the trees and thinking about life, the universe, and everything, that a hobo burst through the rhododendron bushes and flopped down next to me without so much as a how-do-you-do.

"Shit," he says, glancing over his shoulder. "There's a lot of a cops around."

THAT DOESN'T SET OFF ANY ALARMS BELLS AT ALL.

"I guess," I say, super casual. It now occurs to me that my purse is awfully close to him, I am wearing neither shoes nor socks, and I don't want to be rude. My internals Mother's Voice is giving me a very rapid lecture on Homeless People are People Too.

So I stay. And I put my headphones back in.

He says something.

I take my headphones out. "Sorry, what?"

"I said I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"Oh," I say. "It's okay."

And I put my headphones back in.

He says something.

I take my headphones out. "Sorry, what?"

"I said don't let me bother you."

"Oh," I say. "Okay. It's okay."

I put my headphones back in.

He says something.

I take my headphones out. "Sorry, what?"

"I said don't stop for my sake."

I sigh and wrap up my iPod. I start slowly assembling the remnants of my picnic. I don't want to be rude and bolt, but I don't particularly want to continue this rivetting conversation.

"Where you from?" he asks. His fingers are drumming on his thigh. He's not super twitched out like he's on something, but he's certainly not entirely there.

"I just moved from Calgary," I say, sliding my socks back on.

"Oh yeah?" he says. "Me too! I come from Forest Lawn*. Do you come from Forest Lawn?"

"No," I say. "I lived in Brentwood**."

"Oh," he says without much recognition, and is silent for a moment. "Hey, do you have a pen I could borrow?"

"Yeah," I say. "I think so." A quick search of my backpack turns up a pen I bought in England for writing letters. I pass it over and start putting on my shoes and tying them up.

And then I notice he's disassembling my pen. He's inscrewing the top and pulling out the inside and putting the pieces on the perfectly manicured lawn.

Half of me wants to say: "What the hell, man. Are you disassembling my pen?!" and half of me wants to flee screaming into the hills.

But I've got that very firm Mother's Voice in my head, continuing the lecture on Human Beings and Tolerance and What Have You. And there's nothing wrong with disassembling a pen, right?

RIGHT?

He takes the inner piece of the pen and reaches down to his sock.

"Is he trying to scratch something?" I think.

And then I notice the crack pipe in his sock.

He's cleaning his crack pipe.

He's cleaning his sock-crack-pipe with my pen.

And suddenly that Mother's Voice stops lecturing and switches to, "CRACK PIPE?! GTFO! GTFO! GTFO!"

And yea, I snatched up my bags and ran screaming into the hills.

 Happy Thursday everybody!


~The Destroyer.



* Forest Lawn. Look it up. A couple friends of mine like living there because they say that police response time is very prompt.

** Brentwood. Seriously. Look it up and compare the two, and you'll know what I mean. The police are a little more casual in Brentwood, because chances are, nobody's got a gun.