Flowers and Jokes

I like both.

Here are some of each.

I promise I will not say anything about stopping to smell the roses.

All photos are my own original iPhone creations, taken at a place similar to the Conservatory of Flowers in San Francisco but NOT the Conservatory of Flowers in San Francisco because they actually don’t allow photography.


I liked this one because it’s all lonely and surrounded by these big leaves and it’s clearly questioning how it got there, like it’s a the cover of a Wes Anderson movie. The Midnight Dynasty of Mr. Whatever, starring Gwyn Paltrow and Stevie Knicks as lesbian sisters who’re in love and also live in their family’s hotel but it’s animated and the credits end up being more exciting than the 2 hour story itself.

Speaking of my girl Stevie, this flower reminded me of her because it’s weird and haunting and beautiful and I just found out about how great it is:


This is a desert something from somewhere and it is either poisonous or carnivorous. Since I am made of meat, both possibilities are essentially the same.

I love Stevie Kicks though, and I love Fleetwood Mac but I can’t really call myself a fan. I mean, the band has been around longer than I’ve been living; I have friends who’re like “I’ve been listening to Stevie and Fleetwood since I was in utero!” or “My parents met at a Fleetwood Mac Concert!” or “I was conceived at one!” or “Stevie Knicks is my adoptive mom!” But I just found out how much I’m down with the Mac about three months ago, when Never Going Back Again came up on the Mumford and Sons Pandora station and suddenly it was the seventies and love was free and so was college and boy was it a good moment to be sitting on my couch listening to Pandora.

But then reality set in and I realized I’m just a poser, much like this idiot bloom that thinks its little spindles make it big and scary when in reality it just looks overdressed.


It’s like a puppy whose ears grew in too soon. If it were up to me, I’d name it Little Bub.

And it is up to me because this is my own personal universe where only the truth I write becomes real, so that flower’s name is now Little Bub. He’s still growing into his ears and is very self-conscious about being over-dressed, so be nice.


These roses happen to be BEST BUDS DO YOU GET THE JOKE BECAUSE IT IS A GOOD ONE. They aren’t from the unnamed place that was a lot like the Conservatory of Flowers except you could take pictures, they’re from Golden Gate Park’s Rose Garden – where you can take all the god damn pictures you want.

The awesome thing about roses is they smell great and they’re pretty. The thorn thing doesn’t get me down because, come on people, it’s 2016 – my boy Bret Michaels took a lot of care to inform the world in the late ’80s that roses are thorny, so no excuses if you get stabbed.

Oh! I also think I found those berries that Katniss used to almost kill herself or transform into a mermaid or get to the dance on time, I don’t really remember the plotline of those books.


I tasted these ones to see if they would kill me or turn me half aquatic or make me stop being so fucking late for things but they just tasted like bees because I think there were bees living in them.

This lone rose definitely had a bee living in it:


You can’t really see him because he’s a ninja bee, also called a nee, which – fun fact! – is where the term “bees knees” originates. It actually means “Look out, those bees are ninjas, they will fuck you up” but people don’t know how to use words so it turned into a compliment, just like “feminist” turned into an insult and “democracy” is now another word for that feeling when you eat too much Mexican food after drinking heavily and there are no toilets that aren’t hot, soggy port-o-potties nearby.

Language is wild.


I think you can eat these ones, but I didn’t because I was so disappointed by those mermaid death berries that I couldn’t handle another let down. Plus, eating the mystery berries had me feeling pretty democratic if you catch my meaning

Anyway, in addition to become a world-class botanist and cultural historian this week, I also discovered that Billy Joel’s Piano Man was actually a typo, and it was meant to be PANDA Man.

Think about it.






Enjoy your day.

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