8:45 am. I go to a seminar on teaching writing, led by a philosophy professor named Taylor. There's no space left at the conference table, so I have to sit all by myself in a little chair off to the side.
I'm already in a bad mood.
This Taylor guy is about my height, in his 30s, with rather long hair, combed back, and a beard. He is wearing a pink button-down shirt, a sports jacket, jeans, and yellow shoes.
Who wears a sports jacket with jeans? Who wears a pink shirt with yellow shoes? How pretentious can you get?
When I approach the table, he is talking about Lisbon, "off the beaten path," so it's not so touristy as other European capitals.
Yeah, yeah, I've been places, too, but I don't go around place-dropping. "Oh, Reykjavik is so off the beaten path, and have you been to Tegucigalpa?"
I hate elitists.
Then Taylor scoots back in his chair and spreads his legs.
The rest of the story, with nude photos and sexual situations, is on Tales of West Hollywood