Zoo York

Time Out New York this week had a cover story of "Attack of the Single Women." I couldn't bring myself to buy the mag I was so frightened. We live it. Why do we want to read an article describing the dating cess pool we've been wading through all these years? Mind you, I'm not so much of a dater. But what is this? The summer of locust women swarming the island? Which of you told me to come back to the States?? Just about all single women. Hmph.

A guy just made fun of me for taking photos in a bar. Dropoff Service is the name of it. Yep, as in, "We'll take your dirty laundry, sure. Only we might just air it out for all to see first..." I know I have a ridiculous eye and I try silly things that sometimes work and sometimes get me mocked. But, damn, I hate a critic. The kind that doesn't even try to see what you might be looking at, just leaps to a judgment regardless. What's more? Mind ya bizness. This is Zoo York, fool. Then it occured to me that maybe he was making fun of me as a form of flirtation. Bump that. And here's a snipet of the conversation the critic and his friend are having, "Here's our condo. You have to wax the board indoors. That's the surfer secret." Oh, puke. I just looked over at them and it all makes sense. They're unattractive and want to be yuppies. They're psuedo surfers, trying out a new hobby and bought a condo to do so. Double puke. Not my constituency.