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This is going to seem like a stupid question, but can you get Fritos just anywhere? It's not just a Texas thing, right? I can go into a store in Phoenix or LA or Berkeley and get Fritos? (well, okay, not Berkeley, because I'm sure the Frito is an oppressed species or made of GMO corn harvested without a reparations ceremony presided over by a Jainist or is shaped like a labia and therefore misogynist or something. But maybe Oakland.) Damn, I love Fritos.

Also, Fritos are like the grossest thing ever. Please pass the Fritos. Pop me open a Lone Star while you're at it. I need something to wash down these Fritos. I don't know what you send in to get the taste of Lone Star out of your mouth. I'm sure you good people will have some suggestions.

And yes, I remember the Frito Bandito. And Casa De Fritos at Disneyland. I know people know what Fritos are, but I can't remember the last time I was in a store on the west coast and there were Fritos. Tostitos, sure. Every kind of lame-ass potato chip imaginable, yes. But Fritos? Well, we shall see. If I make Fritos the Official Corn Chip of [ profile] mcbrennan will they send me a case of 'em or will they sue for defamation? Tough call.

All I have had for food today are two slices of cake and 13 Fritos, so I may be a bit buggy. Also all the good music is on the other computer. I forgot my iPod when I left Berkeley. This is the pre-divorce laptop and it has only pre-divorce music, all of which I hate. All 65 gigabytes of it. Fuck you, 13,991 pre-divorce songs. Your naïve doe-eyed reality is as dead as grunge, Phil Rizzuto and representative democracy.

I had no breakfast, lunch or dinner, but I did have a good meetup with my wayward lunch date, who it's safe to say has some potential future involvement with my movie, and so we had a good chat about movie-related matters. I also got to spend some nice time this evening with my generous host, who I will miss as I head off to Phoenix, that land of peril and promise but mostly peril.

Plane's in the air at 3:15 central, lands at 3:15 pacific. Two hours of my life will disappear without a trace, except for vague memories of being groped against my will by horrible creeps. It's Daddy Day Camp all over again.


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August 2009

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