Click to enlarge. Photo by Walker DeVille

You fit people who use your lunch breaks to get more fit like this woman on Virginia Street– all I can say is you look funny swinging your arms back and forth so madly like Richard Simmons after he has fallen off whatever wagon he should be on. And are you supposed to wear white ankle socks before Labor Day?

Click to enlarge. Photos by Walker DeVille

With Interstate 64 bisecting Charleston’s periphery and the web of roads criss-crossing the city, there’s a constant river of cars, trucks, tires and chrome moving through town. There’s a steady stream of traffic above, too. Planes make their ingress and egress to Yeager Airport on the hilltop above the city. You can tell when the country is on accelerated war footing, and W.Va. National Guardsmen are being flung across the world, when the big olive-drab transport planes lumber off the hill and into the air above Quarrier Street. (This arriving plan looks commercial, though).

And has anyone sighted the touch-down and take-off of Air Force Uno and Dos out of D.C., as the presidential pilots reportedly do practice touchdowns and take offs out of Yeager? If you run into Dick Cheney at Southern Kitchen, you’ll know they’re having mechanical difficulties. (What would you say to Dick Cheney if you ran into him at Southern Kitchen? ‘Hey, Mister Vice President, the peach pie is good. Im-PEACH-able, actually…’)

Click to enlarge. Photo by Walker DeVille

You know, don’t you think these fellows should be wearing more clothes? We hear about Leg Men and males who favor the upper middle front portion of the female gender. Are there Bottom Women, though, who appreciate these Iron Chefs? Then again, gays in a salacious frame of mind might detour just to appreciate the viewscape in front of the BB&T building, too, of the statue’s backside(s).

Click to enlarge. Photo by Walker DeVille

I’ll leave to some industrious graduate student in Bremen or Oxford the question of the phallic roots of religious architecture. It’s just as easy to observe that churches, temples, stupas, mosques, whatever, lunge upward for the sky, a representative longing to escape into the clean wild blue yonder from the messy cesspool of grubby earth-bound life. Yes, I admit it — I really do need a nap. Or a quiet hour in the peaceful confines of this St. John’s church at the corner of Leon Sullivan Way and Quarrier Street.