Before you think this is some kinky post worthy of Koga, it’s not.
That sounds all kinky and all, but it’s really not.
In the scene around Santa Monica’s traveling rings, the regulars have found an art form, an ad hoc family and, in some instances, salvation
By Nicole LaPorte, Nicole LaPorte is a staff reporter at Variety.
“Filchyboy” is in the zone. He reaches up, grabs the first ring and solemnly lowers his head, then begins running back and forth to build momentum. He takes off and kicks his feet, toes pointed, out to one side. His face tilts back to greet the sun. He grabs the second ring with his free hand and pushes himself higher by cranking downward with his ropy arms. For a split-moment he makes contact with a supporting pole and alights there, Spider-Man style. Then he swooshes down, chest forward, arm outstretched for the next ring, and the next, down to the 10th ring and back, along the way completing a series of twirls, flips, dislocates and then, finally, a daredevil dismount into the sand.
His return to earth is met with claps, compliments. “Great, man.” “Nice swivel.” Filchyboy pulls off his headphones, grins, and is absorbed into the cluster of swingers waiting their turns. [full story]
(Photo borrowed from filchyboy’s site. I dare not steal the one of him featured in the Times.)