South 12th
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29th December 09
My friend Steph found this hat in the parking lot of a gym. Oh my god! I was so excited about someone finding a discarded article of clothing in a public place with the name of my blog on it that I initially typed this entry in all caps, which is something I rarely if ever do. I wish I hadn’t ruined the mystery by Googling it and finding out this particular “South 12” is something related to surfing, but it’s still pretty exciting. I don’t think I’d wear this hat, of course, since I don’t really wear baseball caps (not even to baseball games). But if I found, say, a Brainland baseball cap on a sidewalk somewhere, I might reconsider and go full-on Ron Howard.

My friend Steph found this hat in the parking lot of a gym.

Oh my god!

I was so excited about someone finding a discarded article of clothing in a public place with the name of my blog on it that I initially typed this entry in all caps, which is something I rarely if ever do. I wish I hadn’t ruined the mystery by Googling it and finding out this particular “South 12” is something related to surfing, but it’s still pretty exciting.

I don’t think I’d wear this hat, of course, since I don’t really wear baseball caps (not even to baseball games). But if I found, say, a Brainland baseball cap on a sidewalk somewhere, I might reconsider and go full-on Ron Howard.

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17th December 09
Since my new drug phone has some sort of photographic device in it, and which I imagine the former owner used to take blurry photographs of his drugs, I am using it to bring you this exclusive, blurry peek into the S. 12th compound. Pictured is the resplendent Bennington flag that adorns the entrance to the S. 12th washroom. It is perhaps the only piece of revolutionary-era visual culture that has not been co-opted by teabaggers, so don’t show this photo to any of them, because I really like this flag, and I really like ambiguous references to “‘76”, and I don’t want to have to give any of that up. It’s already upsetting that I can’t wear velveteen pantaloons and powdered wigs in public anymore without a bunch of creeps yelling stuff like “Yeah, right on, dude, no socialized medicine!” at me. No! I like socialized medicine! I also like velveteen pantaloons! Why should I have to choose? And on that note, we also see the famous “SOCIALISM” felt pennant, originally popularized by one Ole Aarseth of Sioux Agency, Minnesota, and reconstructed for the contemporary world by the totally awesome Unicornery (thanks again, Rachel). You may recall that a photo of Ole and his felt pennant hangs in my bedroom, in fact. Said my pal Debra once: “Any woman who can’t put up with the judgmental stare of the Socialist guitar player doesn’t make the cut, eh?” Well, obviously. My floor is not pictured because it is strewn with suit jackets and Micron pens.

Since my new drug phone has some sort of photographic device in it, and which I imagine the former owner used to take blurry photographs of his drugs, I am using it to bring you this exclusive, blurry peek into the S. 12th compound.

Pictured is the resplendent Bennington flag that adorns the entrance to the S. 12th washroom. It is perhaps the only piece of revolutionary-era visual culture that has not been co-opted by teabaggers, so don’t show this photo to any of them, because I really like this flag, and I really like ambiguous references to “‘76”, and I don’t want to have to give any of that up. It’s already upsetting that I can’t wear velveteen pantaloons and powdered wigs in public anymore without a bunch of creeps yelling stuff like “Yeah, right on, dude, no socialized medicine!” at me. No! I like socialized medicine! I also like velveteen pantaloons! Why should I have to choose?

And on that note, we also see the famous “SOCIALISM” felt pennant, originally popularized by one Ole Aarseth of Sioux Agency, Minnesota, and reconstructed for the contemporary world by the totally awesome Unicornery (thanks again, Rachel). You may recall that a photo of Ole and his felt pennant hangs in my bedroom, in fact. Said my pal Debra once: “Any woman who can’t put up with the judgmental stare of the Socialist guitar player doesn’t make the cut, eh?” Well, obviously.

My floor is not pictured because it is strewn with suit jackets and Micron pens.

Comments