Rene, George, Ginger and myself rode out for a last minute new years eve jaunt to JT. Justin Lowe recommended this place, a new and much needed desert hub, the Mojave Sands. Checked in, started an own outdoor fire and checked out. Blake, the owner, spent 9 years renovating this place, and now his labor of love is open, going on 6 months now. Not recommended for the high maintenance traveler. My type of place. Thanks Blake.
I clicked both boots on the edge of the rail again as if I still had anything on them, just out of habit at that point, and thought about what song I would play right now if I had any juice left in my phone. It was cold outside, staring at my breath as if it were cigarette smoke, just waiting on word from the man on the train that we should get back on, and that we would finally be on our way. Dave Mason – We Just Disagree or maybe TK Webb – The Spade…. Out there it was golden white rolling hills that folded into one another and that short brush, destined to be tumbleweeds come late summer, freckled the face of the terrain. I daydreamed about how it would be if I had saved for a sleeper car. I could drink cheap beer and teach that wide eyed Amish kid I met in the seat in front of me how to play Texas hold ‘em, at least long enough to figure out why a nice old world religion family was headed to Mexico. I bet up there that goddamn conductor would find me a goddamn phone charger. But I guess this wasn’t something I could plan for. If I were back home on that tree covered hillside in lonely north east San Francisco waiting by the fire for her to come home I’d play the Rolling fucking stones, really goddamn loud so that I wouldn’t even hear her clomping up those old wooden steps. I’d just sing along “what a beautiful buuuuuzzzz” as she stumbled in, and I would be surprised to see her and happy as a clam in high water.
Its been 15 years since the release of this documentary on DCs sassiest as they toured and preached the “Gospel Yeh-Yeh” while seeking political and style asylum. Here its is, still ahead of its time and well worth the watch, The Make Up’s Blue is Beautiful in four easy pieces. In the words of Ian Svenious, I wish I was an octopus and could reach all of you.
Once, I drove over 100 miles straight up the coast from my city apartment and rented a house that was nestled in the redwoods and overlooked the ocean from a decent height. It was around my birthday and I wanted to celebrate in some small way without the noise of the city. The house was really three small structures, teared and connected by one long corridor with one long window arching over the entire thing. The Hobbit House they called it.
“The owner who built this place used to live in New England and liked the covered bridges. If you’re from there you can tell the post and beams are reminiscent of a covered bridge.”
In the mornings the sun shone down through the redwoods and lit up the entire house. I got up, played country music, cooked breakfast and went for day hikes through the red woods. Mid day I drank beer on the porch, counted the banana slugs and thought about giving them a drink. I didn’t. Later in the day, as the light fractioned away by the minute, I hiked down to the ocean. I stood on the bluffs and looked out across the ocean. I smoked cigarettes and looked at other people standing on other bluffs looking out across the ocean. I saw people throwing balls into the water for dogs to go get and bring back and go get again. As the light waned I walked back up the hill past a sheep farm to the house. I cooked a simple dinner and watched horrible movies. The next day I did the more or less the same.