I spent much of this morning under the lascivious eyes of the South Austin Megaplexxx billboard like some subworld TJ Eckleberg. She had a long and slender, architectural nose and eyes painted with pitch into a feline glare, giving the overall effect of a pornographic Arthurian combat helmet.
As I transfered and inventoried boxes at our office's storage unit, she watched over me with helpful lust as if saying "That's right, put it right there."
Down the corridor of 10x10 storage units like a city of failed and shuttered boutiques, an old man in a bicycle helmet, waiter's apron, and thong, see-sawed at the waist, bobbing in the storage park's dumpster. He was reaching for a framed print of a black and white Muhammad Ali photograph. Having secured the photo, he shuffled his wrinkled, apron-framed buns to the opposite end of the park where he had his own storage unit, presumably full of similarly aquired treasures.
On my bike ride back to the office via the Lance Armstrong bikeway I passed a topless...and bottomless, older rider going the other direction. He was well tanned and wore only a buzz haircut and a gray, t-shirt material thong. I nodded, but he either didn't see me or didn't care. Probably too busy being that guy.
It was as if I'd stepped into a YMCA men's locker room alternate universe, one in which there's old guy buns everywhere you turn. It brought to mind the Chinese curse, "May you find what you're looking for." I mean, "May you live in interesting times."