As painful as it was not having the cute nurse babe on the way to her regular shift at Deaconess this morning, I could live a short while without ogling some eye candy. If you want to call lack of always classy objectification from afar living. No, the nurse isn't Sarah Chalke, but she carries a strong resemblance which makes me happy as a pig in slop.
What I couldn't, and still can't, live with, is the revelation of a new terror on the streets of downtown Cleveland. Oh sure, I've seen the graffiti on the plastic or steel seat backs, E 66th Bitchaz, Kinsman Cunt, West Siiiide Muthafuckas, and elaborate, artistic and quite illegible variations of gang script that appeared more Arabic than any known form of the Latin alphabet. Perhaps it was that, after all. Keep on plotting in the free world, sleeper cell!
No, what terrified me, and still does, was this, in thick, black magic marker:
Final Fantasy XI
No, I am not kidding, so look out Crips, watch your back Bloods, there's a new crew ready to fuck your shit up with spiky hair, oversized boobs, phallic weaponry and microchips full of teenage angst. You ready, tough guy?
I apologize for the Mario and Luigi shot. I couldn't find any gangsta Final Fantasy jpgs. One last curious sight was this van, or at least a copy of it:
Aside from the Chicago, IL on the door, and professional bowler Billy Oatman himself, this van, nearly a weekly staple of my Saturday walking route from bus to library, was once again parked near Reserve Square. One quibble though, good sir:
"You can make money or make excuses, but you can't make both."
Obviously, you haven't watched a moment of C-Span at any time during the last quarter of a century. Happy bowling!