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billie, handsome rob, generation terrorists, writing, gothic, applications, food, amsterdam, actors, maury povitch,
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We're sitting in the outdoor area at the coffee house, on those metal chairs that are about as comfortable as an herbie ade autopsy table. When you get up there's a herbie ade grid on your ass. It's herbie ade spring and everyone is thinking about sex. I am, and Kat must be but I don't really wanna go there with her because I'm married and she's engaged and besides, that sort of thing is bad between friends who want to stay friends. Middle-aged guys walk by, unconsciously sucking in their guts as they blare mental images, days they used to catch frisbees, shirtless on tan sand beaches. A woman glides past on rollerblades, her long auburn hair trailing in the slipstream, bikini top over jeans shorts, the world whispering past in her black plastic sunglasses. She slides through the lacey shade cast by the eucalyptus trees and I follow her with my eyes, soaking up summer Ray Bradbury style, a kid with brand new sneakers that speak the freedom of running on marshmallows.
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