Land of the Hagar

On my way to Montrose I got pulled over for speeding. I immediately got out of my 1983 Fiero convertible and gave the copper a piece of my mind.

"Me and my buddy, Hamburglar, are really bummin', man!"

Clearly, The Man couldn't handle the power of my rockin'.

"Sorry I ran out of lube."

I just couldn't drive fifty-five because of my rebellious, freedom-loving nature. Also, I enjoy endangering lives needlessly. And then there's the matter of my hair. My long crinkly french-fried hair. I like to run my fingers through it. Along with my clown suit, my hair symbolizes that I'm a rebel, that I'm fighting against all those dumb traffic safety laws. (Sure, the song is lame. But let me ask: is it so lame that it's...... cool?) (No.)

In an effort to cool off from all my rebeling, I took a dip in the lake.

"HALP! My shins are drowning!"

Luckily I was saved by an adorable toddler. 

"Is that a statue of Sammy Hagar on top of that mountain...?"

On Saturday night we had a barbecue and then did something very, very important. We watched The Room. "Where did you get the money, Denny? WHAT KIND OF MONEY?!?" (etc.) Then, fully satisfied, I drove home. And my rebellion against the law ended where all such rebellions end: driving 25 mph while truckers pass me with contempt.

Here's a random picture of Salida, where I stopped for a wild, unconventional luncheon. The "S" stands for Sammy Hagar. (Jesus, people, give it a rest.)

I made it home safely where my lover was waiting for me with open, pneumatic arms.

THANKS, SARA!!

(And thanks to Andy for all the gratuitous Hagar!)