Brad was telling someone a story about a carpenter who had sawed off the end of a piece of plywood that he was actually standing on. I guess the point of the story was that people actually do such things.

Today I got to thinking that I did something similar, when i rented this apartment to a couple of guys, on the promise that I would "almost never" be around. Well, I'm around. I live there. I sleep there, and wake up there. I have my morning coffee and shower there... I'm there. How fucking dumb. I wasn't supposed to be there. I hang out in the garage a lot.

The camping trip turned out to be kind of nice. Roadtripping with one's old man can be challenging, but we did alright. The lowest moment had to be when we drove 26 miles up a valley, and then plunged down another 16 miles of dirt roads, to get to a hot spring (which i insisted that we go to) only to find forty cars there. The place was a friggin' built-up ashram/meditation center. And this is in the hinterland. What was I thinking? That there would be a wild, untouched "stash" of a hot spring - in fucking California?

Ass-rams and zen yoga centers have this really positive, benign image (becaiuse they're soooo spiritual), but as far as I'm concerned it's just one more way to get you to pay $200/day to go into a hot spring - THAT'S IN A NATIONAL FOREST! How is that any different than a resort in palm Springs, or a golf course in Florida? I'll tell you what's different: Semantics. Which (ety-MO-logically means "some antics". Like - those are SOME antics you're up to, but I'm smelling through it!

So we dusted that place, and set up camp in a very buggy site about five miles back up the hot, dusty road. Whatever.

Walking up 21st street tonight, I turned back towards my house, and caught sight of the moon - the big, bright full moon, with fast moving white fog drifting by -- it made me gasp. I really did a double-take. I thought to myself - "the moon is full. So that's what's going on." The house looked like something from a horror film, with the tall chimney pots and plastic owls silhouetted against the gunmetal-blue night sky. And then i thought to myself: I can't believe I have to paint that motherfucker.

Summer 2002. You son of a bitch- are you still here?