Tickets, please.

This is my first rendering done in California and Hank at Dodger Stadium is the subject. Some here have already claimed this to be a fake because dogs aren't allowed in the stadium but they are on certain occaisions and Hank has visited the upper deck. The Braves lost to the Dodgers for the second straight day and I can only quietly grumble and pray that we salvage one with Hudson tomorrow night. I'm sending out Hank here as a reverse hex and now the tables will turn and even the ordinary will seem commonplace when mixed signals escape to rave reviews there's nothing that can be done without bloodshed so we make trouble because, as a race, we're geared for it. This should be read in the voice of Christopher Walken and if you can't get him to come to your place like I can then just imagine it the best that you can, little man (or woman).
I barely snuck in a show from May the 30th, 1971 and I'm listening to it while I type here in my garret in back of Miss Holly's place in Echo Park, just overlooking Chinatown which I claim to be appropriate because this show that's playing was recorded at Winterland thirty five years ago this very night, just a stone's throw from the bigger Chinatown in San Francisco. Wow, that almost seemed connected and I have to commend myself on a job well done for being clever in these difficult times when cunning does not appear on a job application and I can only compare meager assets in the conventional ways and not my big balls which I would like to enter into competition any day of the week but I promise that will probably be the last time I ever make mention of that. I've run out of inspiration but I know a stone to turn. Sweet glory, it comes now as the sirens start to sound along east Sunset Boulevard just at the bottom of the hill from here and now the week kicks into full gear and the helicopters are approaching from the west in the nightly ritual which I traded back for fear in the hills of serial murderers which I just couldn't afford any more. Don't cry for me, though, because I'll find my way back to the paths of the families of hillsides of stranglers in zodiac rivers. It's all a package deal.

Salute

This is the fabled "death hat" of west Texas that haunts me to this moment. I believe the photo was taken in some 24 dollar-a-night motel just south of the New Mexico border along I-10. I don't know how but when I turned the AC on, somehow cool air came in from somewhere (you see, there was nothing in the wall behind the switch) but I suspect that it was some member of the indian family pedalling some fanning machine which suited weary traveller just fine. Raise a glass or your favorite thing today and remember. Peace.

You bitter? Yep, bit him, too.

I now accept strange assignments, such as catering to a missing link that lets me sleep and shower here in the hills and... I had an idea to insert here but the beast attacked me and now it's gone. I hope it sucked. Anyway, I'm back in those plush hills where on a night like tonight you could hear the ice cubes tinkling in the cocktail glasses or something like that from Helter Skelter but the point is that serial family murder is the urban fear of the uber-rich. Some question the burden this actually poses and get blank stares as non denial denials pile one upon the other but we forgot that lesson from the 70's, apparently, and ...... the lumbering dane assailed me again and had to be put down. Stairs. Sheesh, this reads like David Sedaris, like I've got nothing better to do than write about my boring boyfriend and yeech. He needs to get his edge back. And I'm not gay. And I need to assert my own edge in the first place so I can be rich and write about how hard it is to be rich and that true happiness lies in the heart and home but give me money to continue my studies in the name of the Federation of Planets, just to lightning this into uber-dorkdom. Now there's a term for ya. This has all been confirmed by the sworn testimony, you know, so forget that part if you like. My latest groove has been to archive a Dead show for the day's date and then stream it and think about where I was that day and how ever many years have gone by since then. For examle, a few days ago I quickly found, for the date May, 25th, a show from my favorite GD year, 1977, and played it and then realized that this was the date that Star Wars had opened so the music I was listening to was produced live the night that millions of gawkers, for the first time, were swept into fantasy land, supposedly far. far away. Anyway, I've been able to do this for about five days running and I think I can keep it up at least ten days. Some dates are easy with multiple shows and I can't get to all of them but a few days I really had to dig and then come up with a gem from '73 or get a weird pop from '89. I had several to choose from for May 28th so I'm listening to one now and I remember to wish my mother a happy birthday and I'm in the Sedaris family again but I'm not gay or Greek but a little swarthy, perhaps? Good night, everbody. See ya next week on HEE HAW!

The Eyes Have It

This is the sunshine I'll have to deal with the rest of the summer probably, seen here in the hills of Griffith Park where I was walking Walter today since the trails are gorgeous and it's just a ten minute drive away. If you click and zoom in you can see the Hollywood sign in the background. Something of a temple on clear days like this one when the canyons are full of color and you can sorta see the Pacific out there in the wash past the humanity that spreads out in every direction where places like this are gold. My car has a ten gallon tank and today for the first time ever I put more than thirty dollars in at once. Zowie. I shopped around for a good price, too. But enuff gripin' and time for snipin'!

Sparkling sanity
Treasured memory unearthed
With more fires to light

Making my head hurt
When the answer is simple
Now unfuck myself

Piloting my car
Through the west Texas desert
With the hat of death

The thunder behind
Sun falling on the highway
Down to purple deep

Punch and get out into the damp foke night
Which is the opposite of smog day which runs
hot and dry in this crook in the mountains
Trapped by the sea full of great white sharks!

One delicious night
Rainy California
Felt perfectly good

Tucked away in my cave
Hidden in the maze of progress
I catch glimpses of wonder
Every time I climb the stairs
And see the golden hills with the
Mighty, majestic
Palms
Lining the skyscape
and never really shut up

The hat of death was a nice cowboy hat I found on highway 10 about 70 miles west of San Antonio and I just saw it sitting in the emergency lane. When I went back to get it the smell of death was everywhere but there was no head in it. Anyway, those are collected haikus and reflections from the road and the recent past that I didn't want to decay. This is a time to think of like (and life).

Cosa Nostra

It's family hour here at the menagerie where I'm
waiting for my new laptop to be delivered so I'm recycling old photos and this one is of my sister and my brother and me from a not so long ago sister sledge kind of moment back in ATL in the snug of the Highlands. Yesterday brought a fabulous California rain that's just now clearing out to wipe the smog away and beautiful hills are visible while the forecast calls for temps in the low 70s the rest of the week with nothing but sunshine, feeding my desires like so much sweet, sweet candy. The rock star coffee joint is my new favorite hangout and I often start the day there with a bagel and the LA Times sports page with a couple of cups of joe to wash it down with and it sits at the bottom of a beautiful little hill stuck somewhere in the future that Noah Cross bought long ago because he's rich. Tomorrow will find me back at Bob's and the little cave with Walter and the black bug will ride again. Tonight I'll cross the hill and watch the Dodgers take on the Rockies while my eye is on the scoreboard with the Braves down the street in San Diego and I really should be there but the invitation was a gracious one and I was glad to accept. Strange things are happening with wires and non wires so I'm going to publish now and try to get this on. Wooo!!

Hank the Club

Here is Hank, so named for Charles Bukowski and Hammerin' Hank Aaron and he was a victim of Cinco de Mayo and tore off into the night in a fit of madness that extended to his owners and their extended relations (me and others) but after countless days (5) Hank was found and returned to Xanadu with a fratured leg and a third eye that's starting to grow hair again. He's back to normal now but can't go for walks for a few weeks so he tortures us all and gnaws on our skulls with a hunger that knows no satiety. Forbearnce is the watch word indeed but animals can fall back on ignorance and personality which goes a long way as we all know. California is the Golden State and I make the adjustment because it serves her and me and I reap the whirlwind which keeps me fresh and juicy for now, be I Henry Miller, Gautama Buddha, or Cato Caelin. California is the mother of possibility and I ride her like a bucking bronco in the high hills where the smog does not reach. California is the hot property that sits over an ocean and braces the brown hills that bowl in the hubris of society. That ball is gonna be... OUTTA HERE!! Gog for god.

The Ghoul Goes West

By the grace of God I sat most of the day in this spot which is now just a seven hour drive away. The day was last Wednesday and I carry the sensation with me through smog and haze and tall, thin women and hills and Mexicans and theatres and fancy restaurants. My iron horse of an automobile hasn't been started in three days and she has earned the rest. Fresh canvasses were obtained legally today and are minutes from a deluge of sweat and color and any other fluid that will furthur the cause of freedom in these days of outrage and villainy which has gone on just about long enough to prep us for the euphoria of R-O-L-A-I-D-S in the acid stream on the Potomac. Kum baya, my lord. Is that how that's spelled? There's a black dog by my feet that casts black shadows with his black cast in the black tradition of the raven or the condor of which I saw many that have triumphantly repopulated that Grand Canyon against the wishes of greedy carpetbaggers who would rather fill the hole with water and build more casinos. I love casinos but I believe that we probably have enough of them as it is now. Regardless, keep watching the skies....

Get yours today!

This was me Sunday as I entered this hole in the New Mexican desert. I'm liking the camera phone. After the tour I unloaded the car at a Motel 6 and went back with the top down for sunset and the bat flight (about 400,000 strong) which was incredible and something I haven't experienced since 1973.

Hear, hear, I have arrived, hooray. Quite a three thousand miles and now I rest before reloading. I made up a lot of the final balance on Route 66 which maintains a certain dignity and style that defines the west, I think. I'm very tired and I intend to get shevled so I'll pass muster. May I play? THE survival game. Mousetrap. You roll the dice, move your mice, build a trap. It's a hit!

Ignatius Rides Again

Here is my brother on Chartres Street in the heart of New Orleans where we have both left our hearts many a time. Personally, I think he looks just like Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips as the young thang at the Chateau Marmont will agree. Tony is trekking across the US, heading towards LA and is currently in that cesspool of a state called Texas in a "flea-est of the flea bags" kicking back and getting ready for another day of driving.

Tony reports that N'Awlins has a long way to go, but predicts that it will come back and that we will one day play "Confederacy of Dunces" trivia in the Quarter for shots of tequila with random strangers and the bartender. He also reports that his ego was stroked by three pretty girls giving him the eye on the road this evening.

Do You Realize/that everyone you know someday will die/And instead of saying all of your goodbyes/let them know/You realize that life goes fast/It's hard to make the good things last/You realize the sun doesn't go down/It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.

More tales from the road as they occur.

..90 Miles out of Atlanta by sundown...

Barring a cataclysm of biblical proportions this will be my last post in the east for a while. If possible I plan to make my way to New Orleans and view the carnage first hand since I was one of the last non-residents to see the place before God's finger slipped late the night of August 28th last year. If I don't make the mistake of smelling the salt air in Blaine, Missouri and thinking I'm in California (really I'm not going anywhere near Missouri) I'll be king of the road rash getting through Texas but then the land will change and I'll know slpendors of the ancient world and I'll eat peyote with naked indians and harmony will abound.
I'm getting a little ahead of myself as I've yet to pack the Miata which will be an exercise in futile vanity mixed with necessity and sprinkled with showmanship a la P.T. Barnum. If you see my traveling road show coming, send up a flare and welcome me that I might tell tales for my meals and earn the love of your daughters. This journey has been one of strange twists but I will look back at the Loring Lock and know that I'll someday return to the shadow of the Hemlocks, deep in the heart of Dixie. God bless us, every one.

'Turnin' around, that's what I'm gonna do...'

This is the theme today and hopefully, there's more where this came from. It's the kind of day in Atlanta that's perfect for a silly love song and since this may well be my last day in ATL for a while, I feel like singing. I'm not talking about the anatomy of sex but the anatomy of a sexual encounter and this one is (I hope) the kind of stuff dreams are made of or at least a short story that could be published and sold so that I could buy and sell my fellow man and reap the Snoop Dogg benefits of being a flesh merchant and a low life piece of crap but I digress.
Coming soon to this space will be forwarded photos from the road to you, faithful reader, and I'll enlist the help of my sister Holly and others to carry my words from the bosom of the southwest and our mother, American Night, to a forum that can be perused in tranquility. The eagle will land. On the night of the sixth I hope to be out under a cascade of falling stars as the Eta Aquarids meteor shower will start at 04:44 Zulu time, providing a curtain for my entrance to the west. I guess the bullet point of this would be, 'Have sex and I may be coming to your town.'