Well I didn't know I'd ever find a girl
Who smiles as sweet as you
I didn't know I'd ever meet a girl with eyes
So warm and true
Whatever. He's not Dylan, but at least he took the song-writing course where they teach you on the cardinal rule of poetic construction: "nothing rhymes with plethora." ["Although I would argue that he wrote that song about another girl, because Trista's eyes are hard and dead. I'm just saying." -- Wing Chun]
Let history show that Trista's the one who instigated the kiss.
Next. Trista tells us that she's starting to feel "travel exhaustion," which always happens to me when I'm flying to four different cities on my private jet as well. Russ steps out of a limo to meet Trista, and the car travels at a forty-five degree angle (for this is the isosceles triangle on which some foolhardy prospector decided to build a city on a fault line) down a hill as Russ tells Trista how much he loves Marin. And Marin is nice, but it's very upper-middle and very yuppie and kind of not really at all San Francisco. Not that there's any love lost between me and San Fran anyway. I mean, it's nice and all, but I can't entirely quell the feeling that there are only seven people living there and that they all have vaguely the same job ("Freelancer." "Yes, but what service do you provide on a freelance basis?" "Oh, you never mind that now." "Well, okay."). It's also always almost sunny, like it's really cloudy all the time but you can see how it might be sunny if that cloud would move just a leeeeeetle to the left. Whereas in New York, the bleakness its denizens experience makes us feel like the sun has actually exploded and disappeared from the earth's view forever. Oh, fuck. I'm a George Carlin routine in Woody Allen's clothing. You know what else is really different about baseball and football? Shut up, me.