Looks like this is where I continue writing the letters I have been writing since before I even had a typewriter. As I learn my way around this journal I will almost certainly post a song, a dog's howl and advice that would give Ann Landers a motherfucking heart attack.
On my way back from the doctor office today I stopped with my Newfoundland Dog the Hammer at a park I used to play baseball in. Soon as I unleashed Hammer the high wind snapped off a bough big around as my thigh off one of the Douglas Fir trees the loggers left behind when the area was logged nearly a century ago. It landed like a defective artillery shell. We went over near where the branch landed and looked up at the trees flexing their considerable muscle in the face of the storm. When I looked down there was some fur on the ground. The remains of a coyote's cat dinner.
I advise you not to do this. You could get killed. But we did not get killed. The old guy we saw getting out of his t-boned car on our way home did not get killed either. You have to watch out this time of the year.
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