Every morning after I drop my spawn off at school I find myself in the car. I want the car to go home. But my dog wants the car to go to the park. And it’s not that super fun, totally adorable “oh please, please, lets go to the park mom! I love you mom!” tail wagging experience. No. I have the other thing. The thing where he gets into the front seat and he sits facing me. Eyes locked on. Back hunched. No breathing. You can feel guilt and hate rising up off of him. You nervously try to drive while being stared at.
me - What the hell is wrong with you?
Hambone - I control you. You are under my control. You are nothing without me. You will go where I want you to take me and ONLY THERE. IMMEDIATELY.
me - No seriously. Are you pooping in my car right now? Because that is an evil and unhealthy look.
Hambone - you will take me to one of the three parks I have recorded in my memory immediately or I will do that thing that you hate more than ANYTHING and YOU will DIE.
me - Seriously? You are a freak. Don’t even think about putting your fat little T-Rex paw on the stick shift again. You know I hate that. We will DIE from that one of these days.
Hambone - (lifts fat little paw to touch stick shift)
me - (swats, swerves and yells cuss words)
We go to the Park. BECAUSE WE ALWAYS GO TO THE FRICKING PARK. Every damn morning this goes on. If I die in a car accident and the dog lives (which we ALL know is what will happen) whomever takes possession of the evil little demon must NEVER give him cheese slices EVER AGAIN. That is the deal.
Or - and this one just came to me - go buy a crapload of the cheese slices. And when he looks like he wants one - which is every moment of his life - pull one out and just before unwrapping it above his head - call out my name as if you are waiting for me to come to the refrigerator. Pause. Then theatrically remember that I am DEAD and don a great look of sorrow while putting the cheese slice BACK INTO the refrigerator. mmhmm. Yep. Dogs can’t drive stick shift and I have told him that one MILLION times. Let that be a lesson.
We get to the park and do our normal few miles off leash. Which is not allowed. But we exist outside the law. Whatever. I just pretend I don’t speak english when I run upon someone that seems off-put by our exhibited freedoms.
“Get over it lady. I think you are more offended that my dog didn’t find you interesting enough to attack.”
And it’s a pretty walk right now. Leaves all over the place. Some still coming down. Deep colors everywhere. Crunching sounds beneath our feet. It’s nice to be out there without people all over the place. But there is a spot along the walk that makes me stop and take in the view. It is this scene.
Yes. I stop a mile into a nature walk to consider this scene and what it took to be there. EVERY morning I look at this spot and ask myself:
“Who the hell would walk this far out into the woods and decide to paint a penis on that rusted old oil drum?”
I mean we all know it was a guy. Cause really? At what point in life has a girl/female/woman/lady ever been caught drawing a penis on something? Yeah. That was totally a dude. And I suspect it was two guys. Because I believe that “one guy walking in the deep woods with a can of white spray paint, by himself, painting penis’s on things” is a cry for psychiatric help. While “two dudes walking in the deep woods chatting lightly and coming upon a rusted oil drum. One of whom then impresses the other by being able to create hilarity out of three artfully painted ovals.” Well that is just Bro-haha’s. So I think of these bro’s each morning.
And I took a different path today and ran across this. Which seems to be work by the same artist.
It’s our very own Crofton Bansky. BOOBS. I adore it.