1.09.2006

SoCAL

in thinking about how i would describe the 24 hours i spent in LA this weekend, i toyed with the idea of merely giving you all the minute-by-minute account you're so desperately wanting right now. then i took a sip of piping hot coffee, inhaled deeply on a fine turkish cigarette, exhaled thoughtfully, and eased back into my plush corinthian desk chair while stroking my beard in a pensive moment of quiet reflection. then i decided "i watched 5 episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm and ate string cheese" wasn't the earth-shattering rollercoaster ride of emotion you may have been expecting.

instead, i believe i'll summarize my experience in the only and natural way i know how:

by telling you a story about breasts.

as i unfolded my narrative to pete's mom over brunch the following morning, i began my account of the previous evening's activities with this disclaimer:

this story begins in such away that would make some raise an eyebrow (or two?) in disapproval, but please be patient and you will be rewarded in such a way that would make my own dear mother and father shake their heads in disbelief and then wonder in silence in the car ride home what, oh what they could have done to prevent their dear, sweet boy from turning into such a dismal buffoon.

here's the problem i have with fake breasts....

i was enjoying my second martini on a pleasant, outdoor patio in a nice restaurant near the beach in Laguna, watching the men and women of LA stroll by. my conversation with Pete was gently interrupted only by the occasional punctuation of the surf, and the welcome presence of a kind-faced young waitress complimented my growing sense of calm and serenity. all seemed right with the cosmos. that is until one, single thought--as if hurled from a young hoodlum's grimy fist--shattered my calm, and a persistent uneasiness crept into my mind.

in the periphery, i saw many attractive women pass by the balcony, and a good many of them looking as if the sale of boxing gloves had been outlawed in the state of california, and they were forced to smuggle them out of local sporting goods stores hidden inside their brassieres. large, firm, orb-ish breasts shone brashly beneath grossly inadequate swatches of sweater fabric stretched well beyond its pre-determined threshold of opacity.

now i know what you might be thinking and, given the sophomoric and pretty-darn-near-pornographic descriptions of the opposite sex contained within the rest of this, my great fountain of BS, you'd more times than not be spot on the money. however, this story would not be worth telling if it could be summarized by the sparse "i saw fake breasts; i was aroused." my reaction was, inasmuch as it was to me, totally unexpected.

somwhere, deep inside, some primal urge welled up within me, and i felt the undeniable desire to grab the nearest pair of saline sweater-kittens, turn them upside-down, give them a stiff shake, and then set them down...

...as if i would see some artist's rendition of the New York skyline, or perhaps a quiet winter landscape inside, with a gentle sprinkling of snow falling from the sky...

what i saw was "fake breasts," and my immediate reaction was, "ooo! snow globe!"

and this, dear friends, is my problem with fake boobs.

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