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Form always follows concept. Now water is groovy in multiple ways, but there is a reason we shuck vs's to jump in often. It's not that we're not thinking; we just weren't thinking about thinking. It's all written on the dna. Makes ya wonder who did the writin'. Some humans hop from the bank but the real kids leap from forty feet. Air + water = freedom. Everytime that I write freedom, an image of Jodie Foster chasing me around Oahu aggressively pushes unnecessary thoughts sideways. Of course, Mercedes Ruehl always jumps out from behind a random palm tree and tackles Fos. They twist and spin against one another, quite competitively, before breaking into infectious laughter. They share a joke about horses and, with arms over one another's shoulder, walk toward a spa where two not unattractive Hawaiian females with agile fingers massage the pair into giggling girl puddles. After recovering energy and hunger for delight, Fos invites the Merc and two Hf's over to her twenty million dollar bungalow. It's really embarrassing the way the chilled scotch makes them so sloppily bitchy. The Merc's pink stripped bikini bottom edges racily off the mark, preciously noted by a line of untanned skin. Fos is miffed and not a bit comfortable after the Merc slips off the uniquely soft covered bamboo bar stool. While the Hf's are totally into the Clash's Police and Thieves edgily wafting from a prohibitively expensive, yet still cool dvd player and dancing with carefree glee, the Merc begins to tell Fos how copulatin' fortunate she is to be a wasp; in Spanish no less. Fos laughs in a healthy, smooth waspish way and is quite stunned when she feels chilled, scotch poured down the center of her bikini top. With a quick recovery and not so subtle taunt, Fos offers the Merc a place to sleep,
"There's a bedroom down that hall, Maria."