There's this guy in the gym locker room. He works out in a gray Harvard t-shirt(I can't imagine another color for a Harvard t-shirt) and matching shorts. One crimson sweatband around his wrist to go with long socks bleeding the same right into his unremarkable sneakers. Grey and silver streaked hair above a pair of large mid-eighties era glasses.
So this guy, this fucking guy, turns to me and says:
"Dude...is it fucking cold in here? Or is it me?", in a dead-on Owen Wilson impression.
Except it isn't an impression, this is how he really talks. Panicked, I try and balance things so the universe doesn't get pissed and hurl a comet at us.
"Yes, it is rather chilly..." I say as properly white-collar as I can muster.
A startling moment, the kind that makes you wonder if you are actually part of someones imagination because shit like this just doesn't happen outside of clever screenplays.
Have a good weekend everyone.
A dream..
7 years ago
2 comments:
um...i don't get it...why is that odd?
An Owen Wilson, laid back stoner dude voice coming out of a guy who looks like the poster boy for eighties ivy-league preppies?
It was odd to me, but maybe I'm just doing a shitty job at conveying the moment ;)
Post a Comment