| Words, and Plenty of 'Em |
| Wrecked at the Beach--Love, Canadian Style |
| When we got to the beach, her first words were "please corrupt me." I don't know where people get the idea that my curly long hair and a certain intense look about the eyes make me the new Rasputin. Hippies aren't always hilarious. Sometimes it all "life is good" while waiting for the dealerman, or worse, long silences devoid of action. The Vancouver vaqueros were a different story. The thing about nude volleyball is not that it's sexy. It's that it exists. Suzy was not corruptible, really. She had tried to convince me that she had the most voracious sexual appetite in the world, drifting through a world of erections and spread thighs greeting her arrival. She was a Canadian high maintenance sports car, delicate and perfect for that week it actually ran perfectly. We'll judge her the way we want to be judged, by best moments. The phantasmagoria of the sunset dry sky visited by rainclouds for the first time in months lighting up her pretty face. Free end-of-summer salmon. Beach musicians singing classic rock, the raindance growing especially loud during the choruses, which everybody remembered. The raindance worked. |
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