Dick’s Out

I feel like maybe I need to get out of the house more because I’m becoming a hypochondriac.  I’ve always had hypochondriatic tendencies, but now without a real job to be annoyed with I have too much time to marinate of wether or not the twinge I felt in my finger means I will have imminent joint collapse in my old age.

I did get out of the house one evening in July to see one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman, speak at the opera house downtown.  He didn’t sing operatic arias, which was a bit of false advertising given the venue, but he was English as fuck and told the most spectacular stories.  It made me jealous of his children.  How I would have loved to listen to the bedtime stories they must have grown up being told.

Neil was great, but the best part was getting to the show.  On the way downtown my mom and I stopped at a jewish deli, which is hard to find in Texas, and gorged on cured meats and strudel.  Then we got stuck in traffic and the most wondrous thing happened.  Mom points out the car window and starts laughing the snorty kind of laugh she does when something really tickles her.  I look over and see:

 

I mean really, that’s just ancillary signage.  You have to respect the land lord that allowed his building to be turned into a giant phallus.    I also adore my mother for being the first person in the car to point and laugh at it.  She’s my hero.

So yeah, I should probably get out more.  I would worry less and perhaps find more X-rated architecture, if I’m lucky.