It occurred to me yesterday that I still don’t know if I made the cut for the San Felasco 50 (50 tears, 50 excuses, 50 ways to leave your lover, 50 more people coming around on the left?).
Most of my friends have gotten the sweetest love letter in the world telling them they are F-4 or Section 8 or whatever you are when you dodge the bullet of destiny and wander, blinking and dazed, back to your normal life rather than pay the ultimate price. Their check, symbol of their commitment, sits uncashed within that envelope. Some of them stroll around talking about what they could have done if only they were accepted. Damn man, I was going to ride it twice bro’!
No letter for Juancho. I spend enough time online that I could have gone over to the San Felasco website and looked it up by now, but I don’t think I want to know. Until I hear my number called I’m just another hippie child lost in the summer of love.