r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r

I continue to miss you, Stephanie S.F. H. And also New York and its hot hot heat. This weekend I tried and failed to recover from my poor sleeping patterns. I took a long run in the California sun, got sunburnt, ruined my retinas, and then had margaritas with my very first girlf ever and the former drummer for the lil jazz ensemble I was in in 1998 - both were lezzie heartbreakers at their respective colleges, or so I have read - and then almost died from the combination of alcohol-induced redface and sunburned redface. Sunday I drove up to SF to play music with Jesse and his awesome friend Stephen. Stephen has a bowl haircut and is doing his postdoc in biochemistry. He has perfect pitch, which I know because he said, twice, "Perfect pitch, bitch!" He knew all the sound effects to “Baby Got Back” and sang along with the whiplash parts as I drove him and Jesse to Stephen’s house in the Mission. Then he claimed that Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” was his “arch enemy” and laughed loudly at all the lyrics. “You make me, a man, want to speak Spanish?” When Shakira sang that her lover was “half man half animal,” he screamed, “What?? A CENTAUR???” I really liked him.

I am Aesop's grasshopper, but I don't care.