But were there boots?

I was trudging out of Folsom Street East, completely exhausted after half a day in the sun drinking and the other half in the sun guarding the 11th Avenue gate, sharing a wealth of fun limericks with my fellow radioheads, when I spotted Joe. I was so tired that I could find no quick hiding place from which to yell, "We love you Joe!"

That, my friends, is pretty damn tired. I admit to being lazy, I am the Couch Stalker after all, but when the target is making himself into such an easy, public target, even the laziest stalker should take that handout. No, I was downright tired, barely able to lift my boots, and while this is no excuse, it will have to serve as my explanation. Gentle readers, I will not fail you next time.

I didn't even get a good look at his footgear. I'm going to give Joe the benefit of the doubt and assume he knows to wear boots to Folsom. The cargo shorts I can forgive, but flip-flops might have been too much. Some things are unforgiveable, even on Joe.