Harrisburg, Pennsylvania today; it's quite a bit better than I remember it (or maybe it's just gotten better). The Federal Courthouse is decidedly unimpressive, but the old brick and narrow alleys have a certain charm. And the commons before the Statehouse is verdant and encompassing -- even under a threat of stormclouds. So what if the "skyline" screams "Worcester, Mass."; I'll maintain 'till the end that Worcester ain't all that bad of a town.
And neither is here.
Incidentally, I've discovered a new way for me to be a total prick: Put IPod in suit breast pocket. Turn volume up to 11 in order to better ignore world. Walk with decisive purpose, occasionally shouting out song lyrics -- but never enough to give anyone a firm sense of what you're listening to. Say, "Fan-tas-tic" to underlings when the IPod is turned off (yet the tell-tale cords remain draped around my necktied neck). Occasionally scrunch face to people on the street passing by, mimicking that practiced look that accompanies my practiced lies, which tonight may include: "Merlot? I find it kinda boring, really."
Is there a saving grace from such total prickdom? Perhaps. 'Cause, approaching Courthouse security, no one knew that it was Screeching Weasel ("My Brain Hurts") blasting in my ears.
This is your total prick open thread.
Fan-tas-tic!
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