However, aside from his growing bald spot being visible from above, he's hunched over a tiny hand-pushed mower in a navy wifebeater, with tiny thin-rimmed silver glasses and the last three quarters of an inch of a cigarette (one filter, two millimeters remaining of tobacco) clenched grimly between his cynical lips. He reminds me that it is not possible for a Goth to mow a lawn without coming out looking like a cross between Hunter Thompson and Spider Jerusalem.
A little further down the way is Colfax, already beginning to yield spring bounty. This is the same street where I've seen three multi-hundred pound sisters in tank tops and short shorts pile out of a pickup truck carrying a tuba (the sisters, not the truck), an elegant African-American lady with red lips, heels and nails in a cheetah-print cat suit pushing a pram with a baby in a matching cheetah outfit, and of course the tutu skater stopping traffic with his glissando gliding across the street.
So this year I have an eye out as usual for the carnival, and have seen the occasional blue mohawk or ladybug-spotted business suit. Best one this month was a fellow who looked remarkably like Hugh Jackman putting along on a bright orange scooter, and the red-and-white striped tights, polka-dot top, close-cropped yellow hair and long Grover-blue scarf of the lady who looked after him and fanned herself dramatically, eyebrows raised high as she slinkily lurched down the street with the careful heel to toe gait of a heron.
I love this season.
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