Do you remember the tiempo?
Friday night, Dasch and I did the End Up, which was once called Fag Fridays on Friday nights, but now is called Ghettodisco. One of my favorite local DJs, Hawthorne, usually spins, but instead it was some guy who kept doing shout outs during the night. Which I don’t quite like.
For example, there was some song about "being free" and he would say over the mike, "Is everyone feelin’ free tonight?" (cue drunken whooping and hollering).
No thanks, you guys.
But I suppose being the old man I am, and something of an End Up alumnus, I was bound to compare the night to the nights of old. And while it was cool to chill with Dasch, dance to a few great house hits, and sip on sex on the beaches, it was something of a far cry from dancing the night away on a double-sided tulip as in the early 2000s.
Saturday, as I stepped out of the apartment preparing to take a load of laundry downstairs, our next door neighbor–I think her name is Julie, although I don’t really care, ’cause she’s a bit nosy, is married to this rather hot Asian guy, and has this adorable little son, so she’s obviously a chief member of the Fuckin’ Lucky Club–asked me point blank, "Do you guys have fleas? ‘Cause we have fleas, and we don’t even have a cat anymore."
I got the gist and implication of her comment right away. But Sugar is an indoor cat, and fleas come from the grass and the fields. And J. Co and I barely even like to go downstairs, much less into nature, so we couldn’t have heralded in such an infestation.
"No," I simply responded to her.
"I sprayed all right here," she noted towards the entrance of her apartment, her inference becoming an outright accusation, and her rudeness climaxing.
Maybe you should dunk your kid in some flea dip, bitch. Children who play around in the playground and the forests and the wheat pastures or wherever they go are much more likely to contract some sort of vermin or disease than folks who stick to the cement safari.
Just a thought.
