THEY'RE NOT SKYDIVERS, THEY'RE LIKE SACKS OF WET CEMENT!

Nothing says California like bottled hot sauce. It's almost like we invented the stuff. And the best marketing image for hot sauce has always been a vista of palm trees, a beach, upped surf, boards in the tube, and a sunburned tourist being eaten by sharks.
Hot sauce makes the mayo-fed Midwesterner go down.

Truth be told, I have never gotten into surfing.
Nor have I ever been down to Malibu.
I'm not a Bay Watch guy.

Orange-red swimming togs aren't in my habilimentic vocabulary.
Why don't they make beach wear in corduroy or tweed?

At present it's sixty one degrees Fahrenheit in San Francisco, and mostly cloudy. It's perfect beach weather. No one expects Ride Of The Valkeries to drown out the sound of machine guns at Ocean Beach in this weather. By the way: I love the smell of Red Virginia pipe tobacco in the morning, son, it smells like victory.

"You either surf, or fight."

Everyone needs a megaphone, a gun boat being lowered into the water, and some napalm at the treeline. Everyone. You'll never find the bodies. Not a single one of them.

If I were a cynical man, I could organize surfing tours of Vietnam, and become stinking rich from the profits. Guess how much I'd charge for sunscreen and sharkrepellent.

That movie and its entertainment category defines our generation. We relive things when there are choppers over San Francisco. The traffic report send shivers down our spines. Also, in Autumn, when the biggest event in turkey day history shows up on our feeds.

Oh, the humanity!



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