BAM 12.06

There are no words to describe my loathing for Grey's Anatomy. I thought that perhaps I could curl up on the couch, pour a tall glass of red wine for myself, fire up a Glade Scented Oil candle, dim the lights and just lose myself in Patrick Dempsey's beautiful doe eyes. I tried. I made the effort to watch 2 seconds at a time through fingers criss-crossed over my eyes... then 3 seconds... then 4.

When I could no longer resist the urge to peel back the fragile skin at the top of my scalp and massage the gruesome head wound with fine Afghani heroin until the horror finally came to an end, I decided to give up on Grey's Anatomy (more like Grey's Lobotomy, huh? Heyyyoooo! Up high!). Jesus, what an awful show. It's like Nip/Tuck without the luscious, milky bosoms.

But moving on, and at the risk of jinxing the whole waterworks, I'm working out my p-p-plan to get the hell out of town for a weekend with guns a-blazin'. Yes, it's true, a plan is just a list of things that never happen (and wicked-bad juju in my estimation), but I have to get my coordinates locked in before I depart.

I'm on a quest for Bolinas, a place where the locals defend their territory so fiercely, Caltrans has long since given up posting signs for the quiet coastal town because the damn things just keep getting torn down. I dig your style, Bolinas. To uphold my end of the bargain, I've decided to follow in the footsteps of the original explorers in finding my way to this paradise oasis, I'm going to use the sophisticated surveyor's GPS I jacked from the GIS department at work.

What. Lewis and Clark were pussies, what do you want me to say?

I have dreams about this place where naked sirens dance in the frantic sparks from beachwood bonfires. I see emerald lagoons filled with bronzed flesh, and great glistening waterfalls casting iridescent spectra from silvery fingertips. I can hear the hypnotic heartbeat of the meandering waves folding black sands rich as coffee in the fading daylight. Oh great rivulets of K-Bear saliva, no karmic shield so powerful will shroud me as you! The gentle lover's caress, the sensuous embrace of my "Property of Bolinas High Athletic Department" T-shirt. What ecstasy, what purple passion so deep waits for me there? I can't hold back my tears of... holy fuck, is that grain alcohol coming out of me?

Wow, man. Wow.

Well, most of that story is, in fact true, or was at some point in history. There was a time when Bolinas existed as only a rumor in a dark hallway. Now? Now it's probably one giant tourist attraction.

Fuck it. There's always free cheese in a mousetrap. BAM, sucka.