Quote of the day:

What for lack of a better term I call "The New Order" is the anonymous, unorganized, organic network of awareness beyond all ideological labels, born under the lash of anxiety on the threshold of our collective suicide.

 --Frederick Franck
 

 10:06 AM

 Saturday, June 22

 (Cruising south on 101, hour and a half outside of Santa Barbara

 Heading into SB for the Summer Solstice parade this afternoon; hooking up out with old pal, Bob, Toxic Bob for short. Seems that this is the appropriate time for a Danny Lowsparks story: Danny'd finally made some headway in a local watering hole with a woman who seemed like she was a little bit interested, maybe even intrigued. It had gotten to that time of night, a point where she was asking good ole boy Danny what he wanted to do next. Danny, in a low gravely voice, and with the confidence of a man just about to get laid, says: "Same as you, except multiply by two!" Who knows really what happened in the mind of the Grail Woman, perhaps she just realized that she had left the bath water running at home, or maybe she just changed her mind, maybe she saw something in Danny that really scared her (might it have something to do with the size of his need, or perhaps the size of his Johnson?) but she, without word or overt provocation, turns tail and runs. Danny, sensing that another one was about to get away, shouted out the only thing that his mathematical engineer's mind could come up with to try and grasp the straws quickly slipping from view: "Divide, DIVIDE!"

 Who exactly Danny Lowsparks is is another story.

 Getting a McCup of coffee in McDonalds in the coastal town of Pismo Beach. Pismo was the first place that Jon and I landed when we set out hitchin' way back when. We bought a fifth of Jack Daniels (the world was less rabid about selling alcohol to minors and that of course in turn made us more rabidly more drunk more often) and camped out in the dunes on the beach. The night was warm, with a light sea breeze; We finished our attitude adjustment session with Jack and decided to go for a little frolic in the waves. The ocean was surprisingly warm, the waves gentle, long and gradual; Jon and I splashed around like we were 5 yrs. old again (biochemically speaking, of course, we were); we had screeching splash fights, we did our man against the elements struts, the ole stand on the same section of sand while the wave returns from whence it came so that you were left standing in a small canyon of beach, we slopped on the froth of the waves for whiskers and did our best husky-voiced old drunk (ok so maybe not all of this stuff was for 5 yr. olds).

 Later that night, sleeping in the dunes, dreaming of a life of capricious deep boned splendor, the smiles smeared like melted triple chocolate fudge sundaes on our faces, the first dune buggy sailed over our heads screeching its own brand of industrial machined madness. Jon and I would have sat bolt upright, but that probably would have meant that the top half of our heads would be hacked off; they already felt that way from the Jack and the fresh raped dreams; the attitude adjustment was no longer being orchestrated by Mr. Daniels but instead Mr. Jack Rabbit, cause that's just what we felt like, just before the snarling-toothed dog closed his grinding jaws around our stringy marinated flesh.

 We were pretty drunk (duh!) and there really was nowhere to go unless we wanted to walk a couple of miles or sleep out on the wet beach in plain sight of the buggyers and the State Park Patrol--sleeping on the beach was punishable by law!! So we positioned ourselves in the palm of a small dune to minimize the odds that the buggy would actually land on us--good thinkin', huh? We "only" got buzzed two more times that night, but slept fitfully to say the least as the buggies buzzed and strafed us with merciless glee.

 The psychological warfare was devastating to the system (to say nothing of the Jack or the midnight romp in the ocean or the sleeping outside on the cold sand). I woke up the next morning (proving that I actually did get at least a little sleep) with a massive case of Captain Trips (I was in the process of reading King's The Stand): the mucus was flowin' hot-n-cold. As if the dune buggies wasn't enough, now my own body was trying to kill me. I felt so bad that I contemplated turning around and heading back to Santa Barbara, but Jon went off in search of a cold remedy while I continued to hitch; but with my entire demeanor reeking of death, darkness, gloom and despair, nobody even came close to stopping; who could blame them, who wants to catch a nasty case of Captain Trips if they don't have to?

 Flashforward: Jon just dropped part of his cigarette down a crack between the dashboard and the steering column, so the car is now on fire; as if it's not bad enough that I have to put up with Jon's smoking on this trip--Camel Filters, hardpack--but now I have to put up with the car smoking. Jon pulls over to try to deal with the problem, but what do you do? Pour water down there and chance shorting out something. Jon just shook, rattled and rolled the steering column (I got it all on videotape to the strains of an Irish folk song) as best he could--some ashes fell out--but when we took off again the car started smoking anew. It appears that the car has finished its cigarette now. Question: now after car sex will it want to roll over and light up? So consider this the little black box, you know, like the voice-recorder on planes, and if we crash and burn let it be known that it's all Jon's fault. Another drug-related death.

 It's 11:04 AM

 (Taking a short cut on 154 east toward Lake Cachuma)

 Lake Cachuma. Sometime before Jon and I took out for SF and parts beyond, we rode the SB public transportation system (read: a bus) to the end of the line and then hitchhiked up the San Marcos pass and toward Lake Cachuma; we ended up at Red Rocks, camped out that night on the side of a burnt-out hill, underneath a burnt-out tree, that we actually re-ignited when we started our own illegal fire to cook up some dinner; the tree smoked into the night. What the fuck's up with these smoking inanimate objects?

 At weekend's end, when we were getting ready to walk back out to the road to hitch home, a guy in a tan Ford Falcon stopped when we stuck out our thumbs (almost as a joke). We opened the car door as he gestured for us to and he said: "I was loookeeng for two gehrls, but I guess two boiys vil due" with a thick Swedish accent. He had his arm thrown across the top of the front seat with warm lounge lizard flair; his stomach was enormous and actually rested in a gap in the steering wheel. Jon and I were looking at at least a three hour walk uphill to the main road, by which time it would be dark and the chances of us getting a ride into town considerably diminished. Against all better judgment, driven by a kind of desperation that induced momentary (momentary?) insanity, we got in the car.

 11:40 AM Just rolled into Santa Barbara. Time for a solstice parade. Home for the holidays. Mac Pilsner