In the bike lane in traffic going home last night, next to an old guy in a convertible Audi with the top down, playing rap. The music had sampled strings in it so I guess that made it OK for an older audience. The biker in front of me was a young woman with glowing smooth bare legs – so unlike my winter white unshaven legs hidden safely under my plain brown cotton leggings.
In the morning, this kid on a bike who went past me as I walked to Starbucks, wearing big boots and camo pants, with a red tube of something edible, I assume, hanging out of his mouth, and a Kleenex stuffed into and hanging out of his left nostril. Man, that’s punk rock. Or maybe the kid seemed punk to me because I read the April 17 issue of the NYT T Magazine, New York City, 1981-1983, while I was sitting at the Urgent Care Monday waiting for our exchange student to get her maybe stress fracture, maybe shin splints, but anyways, sore, leg looked at.
Or Punk Bikes.
When I got to Starbucks, there were the wrappings of a Happy Meal tossed out in the parking lot. I would’ve picked them up and thrown them out but couldn’t quite tell where the dumpster was, concealed behind a wall next to the drive through, I think.