Dylan collapsed beneath the waves, face contorted in a pained expression that was roughly 1% different from his default expression. He paddled to the shore and hoisted his surfboard onto the sand, letting out a guttural “mmph.” He walked to the lifeguard tower where he’d stashed his beach bag and started pulling things out rapid-fire: Raybans, a tank top, a bottle of Valtrex, his favorite Goo Goo Dolls CD (A Boy Named Goo: not what you expected, eh?). At the bottom of the bag, Dylan found what he was looking for. Capsaicin cream: miracle cure for chronic lower back pain.

Dylan’s cream spreading ritual [he found a slow clockwise motion (remember when clocks were analog? Dylan does!) to be most effective] was interrupted by a blonde in a bikini, perfectly tanned and staring his way. The girl grinned. Dylan scowled. The girl grinned bigger. Dylan scowled with all the intensity he could muster, lips curling in on themselves, eyes narrowed so severely he couldn’t see when the girl started walking towards him: suddenly a foot away, then two inches, then past him to sun-kissed places beyond.

“I’ve still got it,” Dylan thought, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I still look just like Mickey Rourke.”

Dylan opened his eyes to quarter-glower so he could begin ignoring the girl, but she wasn’t there. He spun around, whirling in slow-motion in case the girl was watching. But she wasn’t. She was shaking hands with someone in sunglasses and neon swim trunks. It was Tristan Wilds.

His 1992 Porsche 911 was in the shop again, so Dylan had to take the bus back to Beverly Hills. He decided to jump off early (ow: all that bus-jumping doesn’t help with the ole back, boy) and pay a visit to Jim Walsh. Like usual, Jim was sitting outside in a wicker rocking chair, watching pedestrians walk by. He waved when he saw Dylan and stood to greet him, resting a hand on his wooden cane. “Can you believe this place?”

Dylan shrugged. Jim indicated toward a tall teenager with curly haired and platform shoes who yammered on a cell phone. Shenae Grimes stuck her tongue out at Jim and Jim shook his head. “There goes the neighborhood.”

“So,” Dylan flipped on his Raybans and tried to look cool as a cucumber, if a cucumber could have signature sideburns. “Is Brenda back yet?”

“No, son, not back yet.”

“She’s still in London, huh?”

“Yep.”

“How long’s it been now?”

“Almost 20 years, Dylan.”

Dylan made eye contact with the gravel and practiced his pout. “So, um, do you think she’s gonna stay?”

Jim didn’t answer, just looked out at Dylan sadly and tapped his cane. Dylan hoisted his board over his shoulder. It wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet: he had the whole day in front of him. Dylan thought maybe he’d head to West Beverly and hustle some Oxy from the juniors who hung out by the quad. And then he’d probably wander on over to the Peach Pit and have a cheeseburger, or 8, or as many as it took, as long as they kept on appearing magically before him.

Post from: Crushable

Lindsay was forced to get a police escort to keep the paparazzi at bay as she and her lunch date drove off in his BMW convertible.

On Twitter, Lindsay posted this message about having to close the blinds at the restaurant for protection from the paparazzi.

@jorjeperezjr just scared Nancy Regan to protect me from paparazzi by closing the blinds abruptly at a restaurant!

Speaking of Twitter, Lindsay also tweeted Tuesday about her fashion shoot with photographer Ellen von Unwerth — which was published in The Sunday Times in London. Here’s a photo she posted of the cover.

“What an amazing time in Paris with a wonderful photographer”

So I guess Lindsay was happy with the photo shoot. She also Tweeted about missing Emanuel Ungaro and Paris. She Tweeted this AMAZING PHOTO of her as well showing her hair straightened.

“I love Emanuel Ungaro and I miss Paris and the Plaza Athenée”

Images: splashnewsonline.com

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