Had to nap today. Bleeding tired I was. Stayed up all night on New Year's Eve like a heavy metal monster. Next year I will play New Year's Eve like my grandparents did in the second half of their life, the half after the war: a game of bridge, a couple gins and some swinging jazz on the radio.
I woke to find Sonja kipped out on the couch, a black and white movie on the television. Mickey Fucking Rooney. I put the Hammer into the car and headed for the mountains. The mossy path felt softer than Tiger Wood's Buick's back seat. So soft it was not like walking at all. The mushroomy pillowiness of a traditional Dope City winter.
We walked along. All was as it always is along the path until we came upon several modern pictographs painted on the slippery dark brown bark of the sixty year old second growth western red cedar that dominates our mountain. The pictographs were simple: a man with very large balls and a very large penis to match. They were painted with sky blue spray paint. Big blue balls, big blue penis.
Other than big blue balls and the big blue penis paintings it was pretty regular day.
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