50 dollars, 2 hours, and one new, less leaky hose
later, we're back in business, coasting downhill
thru southeast California. Let it be known, the
bearded mechanic in Pine Village is both a
gentleman and a scholar.
This part of California sort of looks like a Road
Runner cartoon; here's to hoping we run across
some free birdseed soon, or a tunnel painted on the
side of a bluff. Art Brut is long gone, of course, as
they are in one of those luxury liner buses, with
bathrooms, DVD players, and a lifesize chess board
inside. They were great last night, by the way: the
smaller club (the Casbah) did them justice. I hear
we were good too, but I couldn't really tell as I'm
still fighting off this goddamn fever so I basically
spent last night's show concentrating on not
fainting. They also had a supremely awesome Ms.
Pacman, which Peter demolished me at...again.
We then went back to my folk's house, which
meant hanging out with my cat and eating
pancakes and bacon in the morning. Thanks pappy.
That was a fine way to start the morning. Much
better than waking up to Taco Bell, which is a near
innevitability this trip. Hold the white sauce,
please. My stomach hates me for just mentioning
To Tucson we go.