We finally got our first snowstorm of the year.
Painting numbers on the windshields of old beaters at Krumland Auto Group.
I know, it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. I’ve poked myself in the eye with a sharp stick. This is better. Really.
Spring has come at last
turkey vultures gathering
party in the sky.
I’m practicing with my body paints for just in case I happen to somehow, somewhere, sometime find myself out in the desert with a bunch of naked women who want their bodies decorated. Hey, it could happen.
I didn’t realize Bob Dylan lived in Malibu.
I’m not sure exactly why that bothers me. Just don’t seem right. But then I was one of the idiots who felt betrayed when he went electric, about a hundred years ago. Seems inappropriate for an “earthy poet” type like he used to try so hard portray himself as, to want to live out there with all the posing, preening Hollywood assholes. I mean, Tom Waits lives in Forestville, by the Russian River up in the woods of Sonoma County. That makes sense.
But hey, what do I know?