In front of me on my morning walk is suddenly a buff, fake-baked guy in a tight t-shirt, lining up his digital camera, giving hand directions to his girlfriend who is…. Wow. Yes, she is. She’s practically humping the fountain outside of the Levi’s store. She’s convulsing in her skimpy dress and her mask of make-up into positions that most people would keep to magazines and bedrooms and other protected areas. Amazing. It’s just after 9 a.m., but Chuck and Candy are busy getting their flavour of tourist pics.
They remind me of the couple whom Deb and I amusingly watched in the Bahamas: buxom girl barely in bikini rolling in the waves, doing sexy, so her boyfriend can take pics with, oh, a few hundred people around.
Who ARE these people?
I liken them to car crashes. Pretty distasteful, but inspiring of a look and disbelief.
I guess they think they’re sexy. Or want to be. My word (Well, I have many but I’ll limit myself.) for them? Tacky.