US Airways Flight 1489 has barely hit the Dallas-Fort Worth 105 degree tarmac and my phone is ringing. It’s TC. He has a simple question, am I planning to go check out the Dallas gayborhood this hot Sunday evening?
This is one of those classic, “do I look fat in this dress” questions. Simply put, there is no right answer. I am not prohibited from going, however, by the tone of the conversation, if I have any desire to lay my hands on one brown 27 year old ever again, I shall behave and retire to my hotel room. Here I am, nearly 50 years ago, free, free to express myself, experience life, take in a Mexican or two, live my life to it’s fullest.
But no, thousands of miles away, in dark dreary Canada, some brown lump, a dictator of sorts, long black hair with total insight into how I operate, is calling the shots. Whatever happened to simple whoring around, I ask you, how is that so wrong?