where there's a hill there's an ass

Just for the record, meeting strangers with long tendrils of rollerblade shavings for hair is my idea of a great time. And though it is impossible to tell from that last picture, the gentleman on the left was 6 feet 7 inches tall sans hat. Indeed. I also met him in the line for the bathroom where I fought off a powerful urge to give him a big hug and burrow my face into his generous torso, just because I could and I didn't think he'd mind.

Whenever I come back from San Francisco, I go through what is now becoming a well-versed routine. First, I check for bodily injuries, wondering how it is I managed to make it home alive. In a drowsy post-intoxicated stupor, I drove off the road a couple of times and found myself inhaling deeply and appreciatively when I passed the notorious cow pastures along Route 5 because the smell of cow shit was actually keeping me alert. It does not bode well when you are happy to smell cow shit, under any circumstances. So, the second thing is, after making sure that I'm physically intact, I begin to realize that I will trade in the sprawling decadence of LA, 80 degrees and climbing, for the cold overcast urban oasis that is San Francisco any day. If anything, I will move there for the posterity of my ass, an ass which after years of living there will become so taut and firm that you will be able to bounce a quarter off of it like a freshly made army cot circa WWII. My ass will defy gravity and time, it will become renowned worldwide, and people will line up to see it, and if they're lucky to pinch it. I will be featured on the Today Show and will have to give up my day job just to haul my ass around to its commercial commitments. And the gays and heterosexuals of the city, oh how they'll love me.