Now that I'm thousands of air miles away from the sharp objects, the tale
can now be told...

I was born in a log cabin in Brooklyn....oops, wrong story.

I flew into san diego on friday, rented a convert-o-bile, hit the used cd
store and drove up the freeway to Poway (pronounced 'PAW-way'). Nice town,
picket lines at the grocery stores and all. On first inspection, I
commented to myself on the lack of divy taverns (always do, been around the
block ya know). Anyway, there's supposed to be a rendevous at a local
burger joint for pre-game festivities; I missed this by a scant minute so I
headed back to san diego and found a mex joint that featured calamari
rellenos (ask if you want to know about this). Beers, natch and then off to
dreamland. Notice there's no mention of arson.

Next day, the cook-in. Hokay, coupla last minute things to pick up, not
crossing any picket lines, I head up to the Bartos' dream house up on the
hill overlooking PAW-way. I won't mention names, but I met some really
straight-up nice folks and hey, I didn't get abused too much (I did more
damage to myself).

Awright, enough of the blow by blow, I don't need a 5 meg post here.
Suffice it to say, I had a terrific time. Great people, really great folks,
made this swamp yank feel right at home and welcome. Still no thoughts of
arson.

Jack Arsonista

PS email me if you want the dirt.