"Friday, I'm in love"

So here I am, lying naked on the floor next to Dancer as she sleeps. No, this is not some D/s thing, rather the power cable for my laptop won’t reach the bed and my batteries are about shot… sorry to disappoint you. She won’t wake for at least another hour so I’m getting some stuff done and trying to not wake her. Truth be told, I really like the carpet in her bedroom. I sometimes like to take my shoes off and sit on it and watch her dress before we go out.

Hmm, so what to blog about?

Now if you have read this blog for any length of time you have probably heard me rave on and on about how cool the Abbey’s neighbors are. The large industrial warehouse that is now home to dozens of artisans and rock bands is a great place for a rope company with dreams of world domination. There is however one dark side to the entire place that I feel I must share.

The reading material in the men’s room sucks.

Yeah, I know this is an edgy subject, but let’s face facts. If you are going to be in the bathroom for a while, you would like something to read. Not anything too deep or involved. If you are going to be there long enough to warrant reading War and Peace, well something is seriously wrong with you and you should go see your doctor. No, some light reading is best for this. Now you might think that having neighbors who bend steel, record indie albums, build custom Harleys and work with all manner of strange elements (would you believe some of these guys scrub their hands BEFORE they go do their business, one can only imagine what they have been handling all day!) would have some cool reading material for when you find yourself bored and need to kill some time?

Some small print run, made at Kinkos rock ‘zine perhaps? Or maybe a magazine that features scads of scantly clad women but everyone claims to read it for “the articles”? No, what do we get? Martha Stewart’s Living.

That’s right. Martha FUCKING Stewart.

The sad part is that I actually read the damn thing…

I think the time has come to dig out all those old issues of Playboy and Penthouse that I stole from my Grandfather back in the 70s and 80s and bring them in. What’s that? Why do I still have all those old magazines? Ask any guy, you can’t just throw away porn.

Now if you will pardon me, Dancer is stirring and I’m going to enjoy the rest of our date, this will be our last night together till after Folsom. Then I need to try and locate a Mexican themed prop for a party tomorrow. Why? Well that, dear readers, is a story for another day (hopefully one with photos too).