Quote of the day:

Ghosts, because they can walk through walls, have a tendency to generalize.

- Tom Robbins
 

8:29 AM Sunday, June 23

 Ventura, California

 (Bob's place)

 It's overcast in Ventura this morning, but Jon and my precipitation-streak remains in tack; it seemed that we were going to get rained on moving south on 101 just above San Luis Obispo, but we somehow skirted around it (or it skirted around us).

 Did the Santa Barbara Summer Solstice Parade yesterday; it was way cool, very dionysian, with mad crazy revelers parading down the street in different states of dishabille, or, for that matter, consciousness. It's hard to describe in words the myriad of floats that floated by, so I'll just refer you to our Ghost Gallery for a look-see. The theme was supposedly up and down, but it might just has well have been the ole in and out, know what I mean?

 Here were my favorites: a giant teeter totter, the two totterers had a bunch of helium balloons tied to their waists to lighten their load a bit as they bounced up and down, back and forth, a basketball hoop attached to the side of the teeter, kids taking shots as the float moved down the road.

 The Wizard of Oz float with Dorothy riding high in a big ruby slipper singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", with all of the appropriate human accouterments (Scarecrow, Lion, Wizard, Wicked Witch of the East, the awe-inspiring monkeys and even little Toto too).

 A Paint Percussion Float, a rolling assortment of drums, maracas, cymbals and such, with painted revelers dipping brushes and wands in paint and painting people in the crowd as they went up State Street; Jon got his leg redded and had to answer concerned questioners as to what was wrong with his leg for the rest of the day.

 A Human Tornado, made-up of gray cloth swirls, complete with houses, people and debris, who spun around in circles--guys probably still throwing up somewhere.

 A homeless guy, who we dubbed, Mr. Solstice, dressed in a huge pair of laceless black boots, a pair of ratty jeans, with a Mexican blanket thrown over one shoulder, doing some John Travolta moves to another float's songs. Later that evening, he was at the outdoor concert at the courthouse, spray-painted head to foot (and even including the tufts of hair on his back) with day-glo orange paint. It was here where we were first introduced to Techno Coyote, the Native American spirit, the trickster, the Pan, the Puck, the Robin Goodfellow of the cyber universe, whose sprightly head has been sighted on a couple of different occasions over the course of the last few days.

 Met Bob, who I first met when I was last in Santa Barbara 6 years ago, an old roommate of Jon's from the apartment on Victoria St.. Bob's way cool; we took a memorable hike up Seven Falls SB in which much was learned many much and many belly laughs were shared: "That bug's definitely not a good climber"; "When given the choice of going up or down just before dark, go down". We met his friend, Maria, she of the many laughs, a non-drinker and thus our chauffeur to Ventura last night. Maria's lived most of her life in the Nard (Oxnard) and works with Toxic and is a great amplifier of laughs and good times.

 Met Bob and Maria and had cocktails at the State and A; then went to the park to listen to the conglomeration of percussionists from the parade; played some Frisbee (I almost de-faced an older lady, while Jon almost killed a baby!); then on to The Acapulco for some frozen margaritas and much scoffing down of cheeps-n-salsa; and then a rap session in back of the library in front of a sculpture of a guy reading a book and a poorly welded something or other; then to Joe's for the secret entree, the Omaha; Joe's of the famous potent cocktails, like breasts as Jon says: one's not enough and three are too many; one was plenty, a t-n-t that was missing one t and were not talking the gin; and finally on to Mel's for the coup de grace.; were accosted by a motorcycle-wielding cop who warned us that we were going to get a ticket if we didn't start crossing at the crosswalk. We smiled and bobbed heads in ass-kiss assent all the while bemoaning his anal retentiveness with profanity-laced haikus in our heads. Rifled (unintentional) through some ghost towns day before yesterday: Placerville, Diamond Springs, El Dorado, Plymouth, Amador City, Sutter Creek, Jackson, Mokelumne Hill and San Andreas. Not much to report; check-out Jon's log for a run-down if'n you've a mind to. Going to do breakfast in SB with Bob, and then a day on the beach, if the weather will allow, then on to San Diego to visit Carlitos, a high school bud; and then . . . long-shot Mexico and then up Route One starting in Morro Bay, through Big Sur, and back to SF and then the real world. So to finish up on that story I started yesterday about the Swedish guy that picked us up at Red Rocks: Jon and I found ourselves hurtling down a one-lane, sometimes dirt road, toward Route 154, the Swede steering his tan falcon (with his belly I might add) like it was a boat with one-hundred and eighty degree's of play in the wheel. He asks us with his meatball drawl: "So, when people pick you up hitchhiking do they ever try to . . . you know, steal your stuff, or hurt you?" Over the course of the unfolding of this sentence the Swede picks up speed, until we answer in the negative, at which time he slows back down, until he formulates another question whose purpose is to illicit tabloid-like tales of rape and carnage (I imagine); he then slows down again when we assure him that the people who have picked us up have been nothing if not kind, they've even bought us food; he slows down and doesn't end up hurting us, but he draws the line at buying us food; Jon wants to talk him into a ride into town but I have him let us off at 154; need to look into the topic: Jon and a death wish! Ciao, Mac Pilsner