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Another Steve Thursday, Apr. 25, 2002 - 5:00 am Why do horses smell so sexy? I don't know if it's the horses that smell sexy as much as it is the horsemen, who smell of horses. And leather. And sweat. And heat. Oh, yeah, heat has a smell. A sandy, salty, sun-baked smell. A dry, yet yeasty smell. The smell of a hot flush of blood under the skin. An entirely arousing smell. When I walk among cowboys, I'm always hard. I wanna be a cowboy's sweetheart Embarrassingly enough, I can only walk among them, because I can't ride. I am seized with an intense, weird kind of vertigo when I'm atop a horse. Put me in the saddle and I hyperventilate, palpitate, verticillate, faint and fall off. Within the first five minutes. What makes it weird is I don't suffer from vertigo otherwise. I don't have any problems with heights. As I once told a friend, I can be perched on the top of a 100-foot pine, chainsaw in one hand, cheap cigar in the other, and feel as serene as the Dalai Lama, possessed of more sangfroid than Steve McQueen. I do hope you know who Steve McQueen is. Or was. I do hope you have seen Bullitt. No? Gee whizz, that's a fuckin' big hole in your education. You can't possibly understand what it means to be cool without studying Mr. McQueen. They don't make movie stars like that anymore. The current Hollywood generation doesn't know how to do cool. It's a lost art. Actors today are all too full of tics and grimaces and pouts and brooding brows. They don't rebel with an adamantine chill. They whine with angsty methodology. Sometimes, I wish I had been born thirty years before I was. last eleven:
Sa r'ji�o oss�vel meninonceiv �o poshik m�'�nch uscantebatahla o�r musiu o�r muiko.
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