I have a very small penis.

That makes sense.

I confirmed that she was correct. I can’t imagine making an image of Mt. Rainier. Why, several time a week I recycle an aluminum Rainier Ale can with a perfectly fine image of Mt. Rainier on it.

I’ve discarded thousands of pictures of Mt. Rainier; who needs more than one?

(I’d like to have my body fall out of a glacier long after I die, but that sounds like too much work unless I happen to fall into the right crevasse.)

The strangest thing about the Marine Memorial is that the dead servicemen’s names are listed in order of rank. One lieutenant colonel, a major, two master sergeants, and twenty-eight privates. It seems a little sick that the military would retain hierarchies even after death, but I guess the armed services can sometimes be that way.

“I saw her notes in the outhouse,” I replied, “but that’s all I know about her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her.”

“I think it is very beautiful that she wrote about packing out the condoms instead of putting them in the hole,” Antonio swooned, “she must be va-va-voom in the love cocoon!”

Love cocoon?! Poor Jessica, how could she possibly anticipate that a deranged Italian could have interpreted her handwritten note (with hand-drawn flowers!) in the pit toilet as a love letter?

My friends and I enjoyed a nice party, even though I could only recall a relatively small numbers of the minutes we were celebrating.

The bad news is that Rainier Ale is no longer concocted in the same state as Mt. Rainier; Rainier Ale is now fabricated in Irwindale, California. Apparently Pabst Breweries, a company based in San Antonio, Texas, bought the trademark.

Although I don’t know much about business, I’m pleasantly surprised that the Pabsters can increase the alcohol content and ship Rainier’s clear waters all the way to southern California without raising the price.

Rainier Ale is always amazing.

I don’t know much about etymology or entomology, but I suspect these flies are in San Francisco for the same reason I am. It’s easy to thrive in a rich city without working very much.

Kevin showed me rather pedestrian images elegantly presented between sheets of four-fly cotton mat board.

“I can’t really think of much to say about the pictures,” I lied, “but I believe the preferred convention is that one signs the paper on which the photograph is printed, not the window mat on top of it.”

“I’ve heard that,” Kevin said. “Unfortunately, my work’s not very good because I’m just starting out. I figure I can reuse the mats later when I make better prints.”

“I see where you’re coming from now,” I replied. I didn’t add that he was coming from a long line of photo weenies with a mat fetish. I’m sure he can’t help himself.