It's not that Kris is unintelligent. Far from it. Her Ivy League graduate degree is plenty proof of that. In fact, she's one of the most intelligent people I know.
It's just that… well… let me tell you the story and you can see for yourself. (She's going to hate me for this.)
There are a lot of fucking idiots on the streets, pardon my French. So it's a matter of necessity that you employ defensive driving techniques, lest you end up being a maroon smear on the pavement. I say this because I've had to share the road with such idiots in the rain in both San Francisco and NYC these last couple of weeks.
Over the years, I've found myself unconsciously acting on certain defensive patterns while driving. So I decided to write them down here. Maybe one day, these will become lessons I pass onto my kids.
Or maybe one day, I'll write a book, get filthy rich, then hire a chauffeur so I never have to deal with those fucking idiots on the streets anymore.
We got off the ski lift right before the high winds forced Kirkwood to shut it down. That left us at the top of Caples Crest with a handful of other snowboarders and skiers, all huddled to the ground to shield our faces from the stinging squall.
The winds had begun as Leslie and I approached the top. Our chair had swung precariously in the frozen gales. It would have been fun, like a playground swing, had it not been for the ten foot drop and piercing cold. Unless you grew up on an Alaskan playground, I suppose.
It's been a while since I've had the energy to write. To be honest, I'm not really in the mood right now. But the cathartic nature of writing is what is compelling me to sit here and type. Not that I'm the one who really needs the healing.
"Oops!" Kathy yelped. Her expression froze as her eyes searched the food court, making sure no one saw the blob of ketchup that just landed on her left boob.
I looked over and grinned. Kathy's eyes slowly drifted downward. With the burger still halfway in her mouth, she stared sadly at the red dot on her white t-shirt. "Oops!" she muttered again.
Chinese parents have stomachs of iron. Literally; their stomach lining is cold hard metal. Rivets line their intestines. There is very little they cannot digest; I kid you not. Want me to prove it?
Well, pull up a chair and let me tell you a story. 'Tis a true story, a story from my youth.
You wake up but aren't sure you want to get up. For half an hour you lay, debating the merits of the day. Finally, you push yourself up.
You ever have one of those days?
You know, one of those days where nothing seems to be going right? And you just know it's going to be a bad day?
I wonder what was on her mind. She seemed awfully depressed, sitting at the bar by herself. She finished three drinks in the span of fifteen minutes.
She came in by herself. Sat down and ordered a Cosmopolitan. Stared off into space and drank her cocktail, without a glance to anyone else in the bar.
Drinking alone. That's a sign of depression if I ever saw one.
It happened again. A-fucking-gain.
I saw the trunk of my car wide open as I walked towards it. The small rear window was smashed. Shards of glass glittered in the back seat. Maps and other contents of my glove compartment decorated the front seats.
I looked in my trunk. It was stark empty. Hollow.
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA