The answer to these all-too-common questions is easily intuited from the photo documentation -- duh, Detroit!
It was lovely I tell you. The skin of my upper arms vaguely recalls feeling balmy breezes and the kiss of natural sunlight, and my kneecaps, my goodness, they're still giddy from cavorting like a couple of sassy pink grapefruits. That reminds me -- I saw grapefruits. On trees! Under sweaters! And another happy accident of the Home of Medical Enhancements, everyone just assumed my eyebags were simply cheeks that had drifted. Man, I enjoyed myself, a sensory rush. The rods and cones were absolutely frenzied registering colors like country club and bougainvillea and shiny Bentley. All those nose hairs (neatly trimmed for the trip) filtered out the smog so that the eucalyptus and wild fennel came through full strength with every huff. Was that my quads screaming or the pterodactyl circling overhead waiting for signs of weakening on my back-to-back sick runs in the Santa Monica Mountains? Otherwise it was just me, Charly Manson's disciples and the big blue