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◊ I was somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert...
Wait, wrong story.
Actually, I was on 152 coming back to San Jose from Fresno, past the part that stinks like cow shit and alfalfa and before the part that stinks like garlic, when I was surfeited with beauty.
Going to Fresno has two perks: the donut shops in Los Banos, and the pass. Pacheco Pass is either incredibly gorgeous or filled with the kind of thick, flickering fog that you're absolutely sure is teeming with werewolves.
Coming up to Pacheco Pass past the San Luis Reservoir and seeing the hills muscle down into the blue water is fucking amazing.
And listening to the Velvet Underground while you do it pushes you right over the top.
Not to go too hippie on y'all, but there's something magic about where the elements meet. Land and water, land and air, pretty much anything and fire, all that stuff. Just 'cause it was mentioned in that crap movie The Craft doesn't mean it's not true. And there you have hills butted right up against the water and you're way up on the pass above everything and it's almost, but not quite, as gorgeous as the desert.
Because nothing is as gorgeous as the desert.
Oh, Jesus, I had half of Karen's cigarette tonight and now I want more. And I want some fucking vodka. And Dan, bless his cold, evil little heart, left four Hefeweitzens and a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel's at the house and I can't have any of it. I am going to be very, very good and go brush my teeth and scrape the crud off my tongue and feel sorry for myself.
Stupid pierced tongue. You'd better be every bit as much fun as I hoped when you finally heal. I swear, only the fact that the Kids in the Hall are on right now is keeping me from going completely mental.
Oh, I made a new template for Halloween, based on a painting by Vincent Van Gogh called "Skull with burning Cigarette." We'll see if I bother changing templates once November rolls around. I kinda like it.