Sunday, April 17, 2005


Skin glowing, shades on, shapely arms swaying, I walked (as directed by M. Biologique) to our pre-designated meeting place.

"You can't miss it. There's a huge statue of an angel."

What he failed to mention was the presence of over 4000 hippies gathered near or around the same area our picnic was supposed to be.

I left after searching for him for a little over half an hour. The atmosphere was just so ... so ... HIPPIE. I don't know how else to describe it. Everyone had one of those rope-embellished drums and doing some form of Brazilian jujitsu that passed for dancing.

And the scarves. Oh God, the scarves. Piled high on their heads, yards and yards of it, like they were trying to attract Bob Barker's attention on the Price Is Right by impersonating Erykah Badu.

"Hey China!"

And that. Got quite a lot of unwanted attention followed by humiliating whistling. Cut me a break! I was already trying not to glance too far to my left to avoid eye contact with some brother peeing behind a stump, and my right, where a drunken dreadlocked banshee could be seen wiping his nose on my backrest. I felt sorry for the kids, who were swathed in so much "exotic" fabric, they looked like JonBenet Ramsey reincarnated as a Bollywood billboard.

Let's compare thee to thy list, shall we?

-Omnipresent ganja cloud? Check.
-Hacky sack carcasses? Check.
-Guitar strummer? Check
... leading a sing-a-long? Check.
... shoeless, shirtless, and shaveless? Check, check, and check.
-Unicyclers? Check.
-Stevie Nicks selling rehashed duds by every tree and sandtrap? Check.
-White people between the ages of 18 and 35 dressed up as welfare recruitment posters and third-world prostitutes (with optional checkered pasts as investment bankers, graduate assistants and/or universally reviled dairy-embracing omnivores)? Check.

And finally, there was that immortal aroma I like to call "Ode de Crotch" which was all the rage back in '74 when Mama Cass croaked and the world's supply of patchouli oil ran out. You remember, right? Where one whiff was enough to deter both criminals and suitors from approaching potential prospects.

Because unlike a Monet, shit was stankin' from up close and far away.


Yes, I still like him just the way he is, pinecone-wearing and all.

He's a man, damnit! He can dress his own goddamn self!

Although, I would like to mention that his grooming habits are impeccable. M. Biologique might look like he frequently raids Rosie O'Donnell's closet (which he vehemently denies), but he has more creams, cleansers and tonifiers than a Queer Eye.

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