Saturday, I'm waiting at the corner of SE 12th and East Burnside because I had to get off the 20 so that I could catch a 12 and end up closer to home with my rolling black bag filled with fresh vegetables, etc., from the Portland State Farmers Market. I decided to take a photo of the hippo on the pillar at the Hippo Hardware store. Little did I realize I also got a far-off glimpse of some of the participants in my latest Sidewalk Session.
By the time the first 10 boys made it behind me and started talking among themselves, I soon wondered just how many F-bombs and S-bombs these guys had in them. Middle schoolers, sounded like to me. Mostly they discussed where to eat with whatever money they had and how none of them knew where they were supposed to go next, then a couple of them began to talk about two stragglers who were still down the sidewalk. One boy kept hollering, "Come on! Hurry up!" or something along those lines. The stragglers ran up the hill after they crossed the street and arrived saying, "We told you to go on!" "We don't know where to go," I heard, along with more profanity, possibly from the one who had been exhorting the two of them to catch up.
Once I could tell they had moved away from over my right shoulder, I turned to see what was up. That's when I took this photo of them, riding away on the sidewalk and leaving my personal space.
Interesting that these two Sidewalk Sessions have involved overt profanity. I know lots and lots of people regularly engage in cussing, be it about the vegetables available in the grocery store or how much food you can get at Wendy's for $5, but I still can't get used to hearing it loudly and openly on the streets. And I still don't have to like it. Not that I don't say hell, damn, crap, and piss myownself now and then, but I do not speak or think or write the F-bomb, nor do I say those four loudly and openly in public. I'm a regular hair-splitter, ain't I?
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