Quote of the Day:

Whatever you can do or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. -Goethe
 
 

Just passing Korbel Champagne Vineyards; beautiful with wooded hills surrounding the grapes they hath (sorry); the smell of fir campfires is in the air.

Jon asks, "Wanna’ go to the garage sale we just passed?" "No."

Jon’s whine is mocking. "You never want to do what I want to do."

We didn’t make it very far today (Guerneville), but hey, at least we’re finally on the road...again!

15 years. ago Jon and I were walking through downtown San Fran around Fisherman’s Wharf, with our backpacks on; it was a Friday and the streets were packed; with a backpack on it was like trying to fly a pterodactyl down a corridor; I suddenly realized that Jon was no longer with me; he was in the middle of what appeared to be a highly animated conversation with a woman on the other side of the crosswalk; a young man stood stoically but affably to one side.

Jon introduced me to the woman and we both were introduced to the man and were cordially invited to dinner that night. She gave us the address--somewhere on Bush St.--and we all went on our way.

"Who was that, Jon?"

"I have no fucking idea."

"You mean you’ve never met her before?"

"Never seen her in my life" . . . and so on

You’ve perhaps/probably made an educated guess as to the identity of our mystery hosts? That’s right, the good ole Reverend Young Son Moon backed up by his band, The Unification Church. Jon and I didn’t realize that that’s who they were at that time, nor were we until later that night, riding a Unification bus--Caution: Nervous Moonie at the wheel!--across the Golden Gate and up into Mendocino County, on the way to a little town called Booneville and the promised promised land of THE FARM.

As fate would have it, Jon and I are heading for Booneville today--6:10 PM, PST, moving north on highway 101. We’re under no illusions that we’ll actually find The Farm again; it’s just part of the re-excavation process that were engaged in: digging up old ghosts. I’m hoping that the stimulus of crossing the Golden Gate and moving through Mendocino will reignite some of the old synapses.

The first time I ever crossed the Golden Gate and it’s in a Moonie bus. It was late, after midnight. The bus to The Farm had carried about 15 to 20 people on it: about 4 or 5 believers and the rest infidels. They’d wanted 20 bucks a piece for our little weekend "getaway", but Jon and I were tapped; that was one of the reasons that we’d come into San Fran, to try to find a way to manufacture a little cash. We asked them for a ride to a local branch of a bank (Santa Barbara Savings) that I happened to have a few dollars in.

At this point it may occur to you to ask why? Why did we want to go to the "Moonie Farm"? You’ve got me. You’ll have to ask Jon; it was his idea.

Jon and I were going to have them let us out, we’d get the money and then just disappear. As fate would have it, there was small scale riot going on in the area where the bank was located (around the corner from the bus station) and Jon and I chickened out on beating feet. When we came out of the bank the choices were: the mob or the Moonies. Tough choice, but we chose the Moonies.

It was after midnight and we were winding through the back roads of northern Mendacino County, and I, quite frankly, was freaking out. Thousands of miles away from home and totally at the mercy of a group of people who sucked unsuspecting people’s brains out through their ears and replaced them with Spam puree. Ok, so it wasn’t that bad, but . . .

Jon chose this moment to stick his head up over the seat behind and with boiled egg eyes sing-song, "Lets go to The Farm, Mac, sure, would you like that, sure you would, let’s go to The Farm, sure." They got him. They got Jon. I quite literally believed that they had drugged his food and that it was only a matter of time before I too would be a Stepford Wife to a glorified airport panhandling corporation. I presently grabbed him by the larynx and asked him very nicely to CUT THE SHIT! He complied with a laugh. They hadn’t gotten to him yet, but it was only just a matter of time. The bus groaned on into the night and I hunched down in my seat and enjoyed a tasty dessert of my fingernails.

We’ll hit Booneville tomorrow. I’ll tell you what was waiting for us when we touched down on The Farm. Here’s just a taste to whet your appetite: group sex with your clothes on! What can I say? It’s sweeps week.

Sweet dreams,

Mac Pilsner