Way out back in the frontcountry (almost at the front of the backcountry), wading upstream through low-intensity biological warfare. An otherwise pleasant and mellow backpacking expedition (complete with roasted marshmallows, for Christ's sake) made interesting through a veritable plague of voracious ticks and sprawling poison oak. Emerging moderately unscathed (give or take a few embedded mandibles), proceeded to bum around in a record store, legit enough to require you to deposit yr bags at the door next to the podium where the haughtily pretentious clerks preside over their kingdom of hipsterdom, quietly judging you by your underground ignorance and poor taste in music. I can empathise, give or take a few DDTs and elbow drops from the top turnbuckle.
Later...pedaled around town, taking in the hunt clubs, golf courses, and sponsored beach parties. Not our scene, so on we pumped and coasted. Deep discussions about the merits of scooters, why living cells are programmed to die at regular intervals, and how glad we are we are too old to care about being on the other side of the velvet rope.
Evenings whiled away with the NBA playoffs (contractually obligated to root for the Celtics, with or without Kevin Garnett), Yahtzee, epic music exchange sessions (70s punk for 90s rap with some 60s folk tossed in for good measure), and several gallons of frozen yogurt. It's so healthy, there is nothing wrong with scarfing a mountain of frosty goodness bigger than your head. Or at least so I have been led to believe!
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