pj isnt the prettiest girl at the agency but i liked her. shed complain that the young agents were either too full of themselves or too this or too that, but the truth is the poor thing really didnt interest the fellas, and her phone just never rang. i took her to a concert a while back and we had a good time. so when she called me last week saying that she had tickets to a show up north that she couldnt tell me about i told her that sure id go with her.

normally i would say that i was busy or tired or some shit, but a while back she found out that i was breaking up with my girl and said that she wanted to take me on a date when it was all over. i said ok. dont get me wrong, its not like shes ugly or nothin, shes just not really my type: total east coast hippie girl, thick accent, complete flirt, not so bright, stays home with her cats, way too much makeup, you know.

plus shes the wrong sign.

basically, i wanted to get this "date" overwith and i figured that it would be better taken care of sooner than later. and anyhow, how can you resist frisco in the spring time? whatever.

 

short for pajama, pj, was raised in the backwoods of connecticuit by her barefoot hippie parents. her mother invented not Scotch "invisible" tape, but the familiar plastic housing around Scotch and many other brand-name tape. she grew up rich, but had no clue since they spent much of her childhood in a teepee.

the guys gave me shit for hanging with her so much but she didnt annoy me, and i figured, what the hell, at least i'll get a free dinner out of it.

she made sure that i had gotten friday off, she picked me up at my place on friday morning with a nice box of donuts and we drove to LAX and we were in frisco by lunch. amazing, isn't it? usually the 405 is a bitch, or SFO is fogged in, but it was smooth sailing all the way and when we rented the car they offered a convertible upgrade for ten bucks more and we said yes. it was so warm in the city, i figured it would be really hot in san jose - where the concert was, and i was right.

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