your feet smell like cheese puffs

oh, i love a good montage...
picnicking with my dad on fish and chips on the bowling green above Bishop's Castle- a small, laid-back village with steep hills and friendly folks, talking to a couple of hot air balloon pilots (drivers? captains? what's the correct title?), riding horses up at the Foxholes on a grey Friday morning, driving cross-country with my dad with ShugE's live in florida cassette singing in our ears, getting lost in the smooth green hills of the Welsh border, drinking my way through a few evenings of old friends, meeting a soft-eyed gardener in the dark courtyard behind a divey pub called "the vaults", rocking out to Jeff Grimes' band playing Sex Machine at their free gig before they continue on to London, getting tackled by gangs of small cousins with wild, crazed eyes, and incoherently adorable accents, serendipitous meeting with some sexy gipsies from Manchester sippin tea fireside at yee olde family farm house listening to my dad tell stories about coming to that place as a kid, carved above the fireplace : we're simple people here,we like it like that, we keep our heads down and don't no one come near less we want 'em.
philisophical blatherings with optimistic undertones, sunburn peeling, eyes burning from the hot hot love this screen delivers to me (sorry, spending too much time googling " merkin")
where the fuck am i going to get 60, 000 greasy green american dollars?
the hustle continues...