Namaste Motherfucker

First full moon of the new year. Get it while it's hot.

Setting The Woods on Fire

I'm back home after a week-long vacation from my vacation. North Carolina was pretty excellent, and I basically got two birds stoned at once and saw my sister off on her trip to Vietnam, and caught up on a little family time. I spent several days in Hillsborough, at a house that my dad built himself over the last decade. I never really lived there when I was a kid, but it still feels a lot like home. It's a feeling always akin to sinking into a warm bath to leave whatever major city that I happened to be living in over the years, and be absorbed by the calm of the forest. I pretty much hated being back in an airport and back on a plane again. For the first fifteen minutes it was nice to be in a weird little chamber outside of time and space, but that wore off pretty quickly. US Airways is quickly going the way of the dinosaur. I think it would have been a nice touch to slap a fresh coat of paint on the old bird. Maybe instill a bit of confidence in your airline (or at least your plane painting skills), but who am I?















About halfway across the country, and 30,000 miles up I realized that I had contracted some sort of terrible illness. In light of all the salmonella outbreaks I consider myself lucky. I was, however in some state of gastrointestinal despair for the better part of three days. I did make it out to some NC groovy, homeo-goodness store when I got in. I'm a pretty experienced guy, and it takes something really special to make me blush, but I'll be damned if I had a hard time stifling my laughter after reading the back of this package. My situation was not so dire as to endure this sort of abuse. That said, I'm feeling much better, really.















The rest of my time was spent wandering through the woods with the family and the old dog. Everything is right where I left it, which is a comforting feeling these days.















On the way back I read this Vanity Fair article that Harley sent me a few weeks ago. It is monumentally frustrating, and left me in a further state of disbelief than I had been previously. I recommend buying the magazine or at least leafing through it to see the corpse-like photos of Dick Cheney (with pink eye?) and Condi Rice (not even the common courtesy of airbrushing out the 'tache). Off to Calistoga this weekend. If I have any more forced relaxation time I think that my heart might stop.