I ate the chicken but decided to dump the fries before traversing the canal. Or was it channel? Anyway, couldn’t take a chance on something so long, narrow and numerous. Many more places for bugs to hide inside. Now I felt better about crossing over to more dangerous Arroyo. Too late for that Independence Day bash under the 77 overpass with the Parisian Quadruplets, also sharing birthdays with the holiday as luck goes. Nothing more French than a foursome I suppose. One day, I think, still staring at the spilled fries and trying to spot movement within. No go. Oh well; kind of stale anyway what I sampled, I thought in my sour grapes state of mind. Into Arroyo it is.
Just past Arroyo on the other side, ran into this guy just blubbering and blubbering about what to me looked like nothing much more than a fender bender to his precious macho truck, but I’m not a mechanic. So funny. I bet he goes to sleep at night with a teddy truck or something clutched tightly to his broad, muscular bosom.
Oh, about Arroyo itself. Something happened there. Something I’ll have to keep for later. Because I’d seen this same orange garbed crybaby at the Red Dust. Eyeing the guitar.
Sunklands 