The morning sun, when its in your face, really shows your age. But that don't worry me none, in my eyes you're everything.

I can't believe I have posted, I dunno, ten consecutive entries without using the word "fuck" in any fashion. For those of you who know me, that is unfathomable. So there, it is out of the fucking way.

I actually have something I have used in social situations that India and I like to call "the fuck test."

(By the way, India dislikes "the fuck test," and hereby disavows any connection therewith, heretofore and hereinafter effectuating a complete dissociation from the creation of, usage of and reference to said "fuck test," and, moreover, that I, the author, do hereby agree to hold her harmless and indemnify her from any such guilt by association with me, the sole creator and perpetrator of "the fuck test," as well as any liability stemming from any creation and/or usage of "the fuck test.")

(I can see now why people hate lawyers.)

Anyway, back to the test. It is used in nascent social situations, when you are just meeting or getting to know someone, and everyone is on their best behavior, being polite, keeping the personality beast in its cage. (Or maybe that's just me...) At some point, you want to know, "Is this somebody who will become a true friend, or is it just another person with whom I will exchange pleasantries, laugh awkwardly at his bad jokes, trade Christmas cookie recipes and never really hang out with?"

Most of you reading this have unwittingly been subjected to "the fuck test." For many of you, it was never necessary in the first place.

Early on, perhaps at the first uncomfortable dinner (or sooner, if you have suspicions), drop a casual F-Bomb during conversation with this prospective friend. It has to roll off the tongue easily, inconspicuously tucked in a phrase that gives them something else to think about besides the almighty F-word. Think elegant and understated, yet firm and quietly bold, hinting of cherry and chocolate with a surprising oak finish. For example, make the Robert De Niro frown, nod slowly and comment, "I really didn't think he was guilty of the charges, but any 45 year old man who has slumber parties with ten year old boys is guilty of something."

Then pause, raise your eyebrows, and thoughtfully add, "It's fucked up... y'know?"

Carefully note the subject's reaction. You have just floated "the fuck test." It's out there on the table, simmering in its own juices. Watch for the following "tells": eyes bulging; nervous laughter; awkwardly steering the conversation as quickly as possible away from the "F" on the table; a general look like he just shit his pants and now has to sit in it for the rest of dinner. If he exhibits any of these reactions, well, fuck him. Time to cut bait. This dude is a tight-ass who hates football, has a Phil Collins disc in his CD player, watches only animated children's movies, and probably will ask you to join a bible study group.

If he or she picks up the conversational thread without seeming perturbed, great. If he or she drops an F-bomb of his own, you may have a friend here.

Now, you're not going to find out if a person is a true friend with this one simple test, but you can weed out a lot of people at the outset, saving a ton of time for all the ins, all the outs, and all the what-have-yous in life, and cutting out all the bad joke, recipe-trading bullshit. There are further tests to discern true friends, like the "It's 3 a.m.; I have a dead body in the trunk of my car and I need help disposing of it test," but I don't have time for that today.
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We are slowly meeting the neighbors. So far, to our left, there is a young guy we'll call "Rusty." He is a construction manager. Then, further left is a young family. All I know about them is that the guy has guitars hanging all over his walls. Then there are the mysterious "Gals From Texas," whom I haven't actually met, but I have built an image in my mind of a couple of brassy, fun-loving, deep-southern lesbians who like to drink beer and talk shit. Maybe it is best if I never meet them. That is an image that reality will be hard pressed to match.

To our immediate right is an artist. She is really nice, and interesting. She invited us to a "Gallery Walk" in Livingston (next town to the east, over the pass) on Friday. I guess there are a bunch of art galleries on the main drag,showing art, and they serve drinks and food. You wander around, mingle and check out the art. Livingston, and nearby Paradise Valley, are home to many celebrities, and apparently they frequent these gallery walks. If we can successfully identify "Friday" from the other days of the week, we intend to go.

If I see Meg Ryan, I will tell her to stop with the surgery. Her lips look like pink bicycle tires.

If I see Harrison Ford, I will give him the fuck test. "Dude, that was pretty fucking cool when you blew away Greedo in Mos Eisley. How many parsecs did it take you to make the Kessel run? I did it in 13."

Our artist neighbor has a retired police & rescue dog, a black German Shepherd names Sirius, who used to ride horses, rescue kids from culverts, and, of course, sniff out contraband. Super-smart and very sweet dog. She once entered her hippie-neighbor's house, and found his stash. He came out and told our neighbor, "Tell her to find her own stuff, man."

So... if you visit, and you find a sweet German Shepherd sniffing your crotch, it may not be your balls she is after.