Nearly every day around 12:45ish a small, skinny middle-aged woman stops in front of the art gallery. The people sitting on the steps between the lions run the gambit between occasional business execs in power suits and kids with strange hairdoos rolling joints, but when she arrives, they all take note. She is not someone to be missed.
She hangs her jacket on a handrail, then ties her long, thin hair back with a scrunchee with a gaudy floral pattern that matches her knee-length skirt. From out of nowhere, she produces an oversized set of headphones, places them over her ears and then she begins to dance.
She shuffles, she twirls. She flails her arms. She shakes her butt for everyone to see, making her skirt swish from side to side.
She sings too. She is quite tone deaf.
She is strangely entertaining. I love how incredibly un-self conscious she is.
Price of admission? $4 for a roll of sushi and an orange Nalgene waterbottle brought from home, though I suppose a green one would do in a pinch.
When I went back to the office, my only amusement was a radio station that I sort of made up on Last.fm that needs some tweaking, becaue it plays too much Daft Punk and not enough Kaizers Orchestra. Regardless, I fell asleep in front of my computer and it was about an hour before anyone noticed because one of my eyes was open.
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