Last night

We had dinner with an old friend at a mediocre Mexican place- named- wait for it- wait for it- Cayote's. There. Are you satisfied? I am. And guess what- the logo incorporates a cayote howling at the moon. Did you see that coming? If not, you didn't spend 6 years in college in Arizona. And you probably can still stomach Kokopele imagery as well. Good for you, hero.

Anyway, after the kinda crappy food and even worse service (But I'm pretty, I don't have to be good!) we went for a walk on the beach. And almost witnessed what appeared to be some kind of street fight amongst large (fucking scary big) gansta kind of dudes. They were totally flipping shit at eachother (Go do your fingernails, bitch...etc), and there was a bit of tension in the air. This all despite the cute little chippies with them who were in bikinis playing with a football. Kenga slowed down- he wanted to watch. We sped up- we didn't.

By the time we got back, the group was dispersed, and no fighting was going on. Buzzkill. I am a bad wife, anyway. Kenga didn't get to experience the sweet exhileration that is a street fight. He said that he mostly enjoys the logic that is employed and watching the crowd. I can't argue with that. But it could be that he is self-deceptive, and really wants to see blood. I dunno. Didn't happen.