The lake was glass. Not a boat on it. Out to the end of the long dock we walked, and, on my cue, out of our clothes and into the water. Jumping in was funny. Here I was naked in front of Chiquita and friends thinking I could leap into the water and thus some semblance of discretion. I landed two feet below the surface and had to sit down to get my ass under the water. Totally shallow.

Later...

Just met, well.. was just interviewed by Stan Roser from the Litchfield Independent Review out front of the bar here. Small world. The boys are now singing a song they just made up, "It's a Twine Ball World." Stan says his son Ed is involved in the rock music business out of Chicago. Plays in a band called Urge Overkill. Have I perchance heard of them? Hah! You just never know who you're gonna meet. Get out there on the street, man.

Scott from the bar was just eavesdropping off my computer screen. Says he really likes my computer. I liked watching his eyes light up when I told him I got it for only $70. Slowing down a bit. I think I need a cup of coffee. Now the band, er.. the motley gang of singers, strummers and maraca shaking, beer-drinking crazies is singing "Living on Tulsa Time."

Seven pulls me aside out front of the bar and tells me a story. It seems that the owner of the bar is a bitch on wheels, or so the rumor goes. Daughter of a banker, all money matters and how the Hell Jim got hooked up with her is anybody's guess. Well, it seems she owns this establishment and ordered it closed most days of the week. Apparently, it was closed when we walked in here this afternoon, but we didn't know it. We ordered food, drinks, we brought some cash flow in. Jim came along with his brother and their guitars and after we'd had a swim and adequately pissed off his wife out on their land, well, this happened here. She tried to close the place down, but, as Seven tells it, somehow our presence helped prevent it. And the rest is history. A night of fun and music for all.

I'm sitting over here in the corner typing away, trying hard to look at the scene and not at my screen. Ramon to my right seems to have found himself a lady friend. Adrienne shakes a maraca and dances in her red mini-dress. The band has whittled down a bit. I join them in song for awhile. "Cauz I get a peaceful, easy feeling, and I know you wont' let me down, cauz I'm already standing on the ground." Little Sam shakes a tambourine and follows the movement and the rhythm, though somewhat jittery and beer-addled, of the adults around her.

Every now and again I think about the fact that we gotta drive outa here. Corvallis, Oregon has left me mildly scarred in the revelry region. Shit, I was damn scared of drinking in that town. Mostly because I was so damn depressed. And when you're depressed you just can't handle people telling you shit like "ooh, don't EVEN get caught with beer on your breath driving in this town. The DA's daughter was killed by a drunk driver and they'll shackle you and run you up the river." This guy I was working with at this real estate agency before I totally shut down took me out for a drink and told me all about his DUI, about having a device hooked up to his ignition whereby he'd have to blow into it to drive and how his wife hated him for awhile and all this fear shit. He reminded me of the library janitor in one of Hunter Thompson's short pieces. The guy has an electronic ankle bracelet on, his portable jail sentence for some innocuous crime. All 1984 fear and loathing shit.

So, when Seven says to me in this conspiratorial tone that he's been watching this one short-haired guy at the bar and is sure he's the sheriff, blah, blah, blah, it's hard to ignore the paranoia.

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Last update April 1, 2004