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I bought a blood orange today, though it had been renamed "pink navel" (no doubt by some horrible citrus marketing subcommittee), which is roughly the equivalent of NYC real estate agents renaming Hell's Kitchen "Clinton."

Basically, that's what's wrong with trying to make something interesting more palatable for the masses. It loses its juice.

I am wearing my "I Learned to Knit in Prison" t-shirt, and just had my head shorn (thank the fracking gods), so I am feeling butch, I guess. Speaking of feeling butch, I found myself in an interesting conversation the other day; a guy was telling a female friend of his that when he'd first met her, he'd thought she was gay.

We were trying to figure out why that was. She thought it might be her arms, because they're "ripped" (her term). He suggested it might be because he used to work in a lesbian bar and tends to just assume all women are homosexual until proven otherwise.

I commented that I have often wondered whether my short hair gives some people the impression that I am gay. But it's hard to figure out, because any guy who thought so would probably just keep his distance, and actual lesbians tend to be able to tell the difference, regardless of hair length.

Anyway, the girl with the ripped arms didn't strike me as gay; just awesome. She's a racer. Make that a serious fucking racer; she beats most men.

And she's very pretty, and not what I would think of as butch, so I still don't know why men would think she was gay - but apparently her friend is not the only man who's made that mistake.

Stereotypes, baby. Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em.

It'll be an interesting summer. I am now a bit ripped myself, and we shall see what happens when that is on display. I like it, and I'd like to keep it if I can.