Contemplating plumage

Got my computer back and it is sitting in the back room because it’s pretty much nonfunctional right now and that’s how that stands. While H.o.p. sleepeth I blog from his pretty well dysfunctional computer which has a teeny tiny screen. It’s a dinosaur with zip memory and power (but it’s doing better than mine is right now, isn’t it) and so I can do nothing with it, besides which it is his computer. So you will not be seeing any time soon one of the pretty pics I took of the flamingos (zoo trip on Monday) which I’d worked with a bit. Which is just fine because Perez Hilton takes up the slack and is vastly more entertaining, I’ve decided.

In lieu of being able to treat you with pics of the hookers working outside the building (still have digital camera but no way to upload pics) I’ve been thinking it’s time for a co-blogger, someone with personality who doesn’t sit around painting baseboards. Not that I was actually thinking of posting pics of the hookers, because I have this odd idea that I would be invading their privacy and they would somehow find out about it and beat me up.

The transhookers we’ve always had around here but they kept to their corners pretty much looking out for the cars with out-of-county license plates. The new flock of hookers moved in from another neighborhood and are aggressive, chasing locals. As daylight dawns and the street scene switches to daylight women tromping up and down the street on the way to 9 to 5 jobs, even when they are in high stompy heels there is no echoing clop which you can hear from 100 paces, their step is nearly silent, so I’ve decided the hookers have somehow amped up the clop of their heels intentionally and it something like a mating call or business advertisement. The new upscale condos on the corner look like something out of Mary Poppinsville (and they smell nice too now that they’ve taken care of their sewer issues) and I would’ve thought their presence would cow the hookers but I’ve obviously not the heart and mind of a hooker because instead cozy Poppinsville seems to make for only a more opportunistic staging area. Except the hookers usually don’t walk that side of our narrow street. They keep to this side.

I was asked what H.o.p. thinks of the hookers. He is blithely unaware. They are a late late night breed, as are we, but he is still unaware as they aren’t noticeable unless you’re in the front side room at night, which we aren’t. And when he’s coming and going by vehicle it’s always earlier in the evening and only the transhookers are out then on their corners, and when we pass they always are in singles rather than pairs and quietly, taciturnly surveying, They are dressed to sell but have a way of blending into the street as well. A dual identity where they are both there but receding visually as you pass, looking almost insecure in comparison to the other hookers. At least during the early hours. The late night transhookers are flashier in presence but I rarely see them. And the late night hookers don’t seem to see me. The early evening transhookers do, when I pass, however fleeting a glance. They have been around a while, I recognize them, and there is something in the eyes as they briefly glance then look away and I’ve never been able to quite say what it is. Maybe it’s just the striving for ambiguity, walking the edge of blending in but not. I always feel like they are testing–have I accomplished it, do I blend in just the right way, does that woman see another woman who could simply be out for a walk to the store or does she see a transhooker, and even now that she’s seen me regularly out here on my corner and we recognize each other in passing, what identity does she see when she’s looking at me? At least that’s what I am made to think when we pass and they glance. But of course I don’t know what is actually on their minds.

Anyway, I am fully aware this blog is in need of a vastly more entertaining co-blogger, one with tantalizing plumage. But that sort of person will have a blog of their own, won’t they.

H.o.p. is now up and telling me my “favorite” show is on. He believes since I have sometimes enjoyed watching the PBS Antiques Road Show that it is my “favorite” show. Any show I have at one point seemed to enjoyed for a minute or two becomes my favorite show.

“Mom, that show that has the sculptures you like is on! I know it’s your favorite show! Mom, I just saw a rattle that has a human face a frog going up to the human face and a raven on the back. It’s really pretty.”

I walk in and note to him it’s a Tsimshian rattle.

“I know, it’s an Indian rattle! Come on and watch with me.”

So I will.