There's an almost finished homemade keytar sitting on my table.
I recently realized that all my stories seem to end with me loosing money, something I own breaking, or getting ripped off by someone somehow.
I'm supposed to do this show in 10 days, which is cool, but I need to keep this pace of getting ready for it... which means I am trapped here to bake on this great plain with out air conditioning. But two people who said they would be drummers are not returning phone calls or emails. This is bad.
Strange women, strange habits, strange communication...
Bonanza, Utah, is the desolate outpost of scraggly humanity huddled round a few oil wells from The Road Warrior.
The biting insects of the White River have made their presence felt. The guide book's suggestion to put on your bug spray before you exit your vehicle was not made in jest.
But the OFF works, and the water is a great temperature for floating in. The canyons were very beautiful... The historians I accompanied were entertaining and full of interesting facts and perspectives. I smoked a cigar and saw a good Mark Twain impression. Heard the stories about Durango and Chief Ouray and Meeker. Met a friendly Air Force pilot and two kids from Americorps, on bikes in the heat of the day and a long way back to Rangely.
In an odd mood. Need to stay away more. The temperature is too hot for the bitterness of the irony in Denver. But we can boil it down to a few key points, that, when you have something you don't want it and when you want something you can't have it. And no matter wherever you go, there you are.
The literary value of these dehydrated mumblings is dropping off considerably.
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