I'm just preparing things here. Just getting everything lined up nicely. That's what it's all about.

Because I don't know what the next move is. It's not my move. I don't think it is. Shit. Now I don't remember whose move it is. I'd best not let on.

I have to tend to my wigwam these-a-days. There's a serious backlog of things to do. This house is distressed. That is not an exaggeration. And I can't be in the middle of an improvemnet project if things start kicking. Getting interesting or busy. Renovation is the devil. Improvement is sin. Let it rot I say.

I don't like this feeling. Of not having a fucking clue what's going on. The energies are too quiet. It's like I've fallen asleep with my radio off. Not knowing all the shit going on the other end. I wake up and I know it's hot out there. But I'm not having any part of it.

I organized and reorganized the garage. Throwing tons of crap away. Wiping down the stuff I wanted to keep. Oiling rusty toolboxes with WD 4o. Trying not to mutter to myself. It's cold as hell in there. All that crap is mine. What a terrible sight. I want to have a fire sale. All I need is acclelerant.

I'm short on gumption these-a-days. Failed to bring enough for the whole trip. I'm clipping the treetops now. Something's got to give way. I'm like two fat men stuck in a door. It's late and it's cold out, but i don't want to stay inside. It's mean out. And unpredictable. And I don't even have the dog with me. Maybe I'll just drive. Take in that American road. Yeah right. Tune in some Bob Seeger on the radio. Take the 101 up to Star Gardens.

Last time I went to a strip bar, it was full of bikers. They were wearing their colors. The Sundowners (San Fernando Valley). The place was lousy with them. I put two bucks on the stage for the girl dancing. As gentlemen do. And one big biker dude came up in front our table. He pulled out a huge roll of singles, and started peeling them off and laying them down in a neat row in front of the gyrating chick. he stood right between us and the girl, so we were looking at his colors ( looking at his ass) for the whole song. And he puts 50 singles down on the linoleum. How do you like that?

Everyone is a maddog here. I don't know what it's about. Wieners and maddogs. And women with voices much too deep. And bad boys in trucks with tires that screech. I try to stay 'bove it somehow. I try yes I do.