You have your heart, I guess, to go on.

--San Francisco, CA / 9:41pm.--

JOHNATHON: "Will you put that in the blog?"
ME: "Sure, of course."

I don't know what this commentary was factually really about, but the discussion revolved like a moon around the subjects of home made whiskey in tonight's whiskey sours, and the idea that Johnathon's laptop works like an angel's touch on the hips in this room. If an angel were to touch you on the hips, just so you know (I don't, but this is conjecture in the works), it would make you feel a little magic happening in the erotic area of your body below the belly and above the knees. I guess.

The tour's been like some kind of small Heaven so far. My kick-off night in Portland landed softly at Union Jack's and perched upon its seating arrangements so softly like owls do in trees at night in beautiful side yards in rich neighborhoods where even the owls know there's the smell of money bubbling up from the soil.

Reno was pretty. I sold a few books to a girl with an octopus tattoo on her wrist that ran up the forearm, and she said the books were presents for her twin brothers, who both are both about to be released from jail after two years, on the eve of their birthday. The books were a gift to them, and far be it from me to dissuade a lady from orchestrating such gifts, I kind of think that Please Don't Leave Me isn't probably the most uplifting book for a couple of jail castaways. But in reality, I think if you really boil things down, the only people I can honestly relate to are those that got the short end of the stick really hard somewhere in life, so I was happy to oblige. I almost said, "Holy shit," but then didn't. Sometimes you get the feeling that it's okay not respond out loud, and then when you shrug and smile everything comes out okay. This guy spilled Arrogant Bastard Ale on one of my books and I almost said, "What the Devil are you up to, fellow? What's the meaning of this?" But instead I just frowned at him meaningfully until he offered to purchase the damaged book. Money in the fucking bank.

People in Reno outside of the show were generally mean and distrusting; the motels were questionable and Johnathon and I were accosted in the Sands Hotel Casino by two derelicts trying to sell us something we were pretty sure were Betty Boop mini-purses. The two guys had stars in their eyes that looked to shine only from the gutter in twilight, and the main salesman of this badly dressed and hardly showered duo had chapped lips that appeared to be falling right the fuck off his face. I felt he was close to stabbing one or the both of us, so I tried not be a smart ass and I succeeded in doing that; I kept silent and nodded my head sideways when one of them then asked for spare change.

In the morning we watched the lobby leader interrogate other boarders by pounding on the door and screaming some kind of unintelligble babble about check out times that mostly sounded very funny and untroubling. Case in point, he demanded keys from one tenant but ended up walking away empty handed, shaking his head, then smiling down at all of us spectators nervously while we waved hello to him. Getting what you want out of life is hard, and I think that old man who runs the office of whatever seedy motel we stayed at has his life's hands full of woe and incomplete dreams.

Birds fly regardless, however, and today I saw the island of Alcatraz.

Really fucking pretty place. Juliana Hatfield couldn't look that cute even if she wasn't wearing a shirt. Well, she could, but in any event besides the matter, Alcatraz is gorgeous.

Richard and Nathan from Unwed Sailor fell off a balcony today while arm wrestling. The drop was only about eight feet, but in a nest of fluffy green bushes with pink flowers that don't have thorns like the flowers do back home. This town is really pretty.

I almost purchased a bow-and-arrow set.

Yours,
JARET.