Who wants to read that shit anyway? It's not like I ever really even wrote about it that much in the first place, and I hated reading about punk politics and semantics. So fuck all that. This blog is now about scooters and vacations.
When I went on vacation last year with my brother, we both slept in my cousin's pink bed. It's cool, my cousin's a girl. We rented a scooter and putted around, him riding on the back and gripping me tightly and yelling "slow down" every 45 seconds. We also said things to each other like "Can you put more sunscreen on my back? I can't reach." It was the perfect homosexual vacation.
Not that my brother and I are homosexuals. At least, not together. That I know of. I mean, he might be one, but I'm pretty sure that I'm not. All the same, we took a nap together every day in the same bed. We went to a place called Snorkel Beach, which sort of looked like where an R. Kelly video might be shot. Big white chairs, decks, billowing curtains on pavillions, that sort of thing.
We also went to some fort, where they served 40 ounce beers in 40 ounce glasses. He drank one; I didn't. I guess that's pretty macho - I had a seltzer. At night, I rode the scooter as fast as it would go, which is like 25 mph, and one time I stopped and sat on a park bench because I thought I should contemplate the ocean or something, and within 2 minutes there were half a dozen cockroaches crawling on my legs. The end.