Saint Peter don'tcha call me cause I can't go -
I sold my soul to Sandberg Vol-vooo

Almost back to Seattle and I'm getting all creative again. After being in San Francisco for around a week, navigating their narrow streets and trying to park somewhere that isn't being cleaned at 6 am, I find myself thoroughly sick of the bay area in general. I didn't get to see everyone I wanted to down there, but I'm sure I'll go back, and I won't have as many obligations. And I'll probably be driving (and complaining about) someone else's car.

Hmmmm not much else to do in Portland on a Sunday. Eat 'Cheez' N Crackers and watch lousy motel TV, I guess. Outside, cars peel up strips of water as they rocket down (little shield with a 26 in it). I thought I had something else to say... Oh yeah. Crescent City, CA - most unpleasant looking people in one McDonalds ever. The probably homeless guy wearing a homemade sock turban and pacing back and forth for 20 minutes before ordering a soft serve cone, sitting down to finish it, and then remain there glaring for the rest of the hour. The mammoth woman, huge swinging pendulous bosoms matching her dinosaur drumstick legs and body like a single ice cream scoop of creamy lard. Her strangely flat-faced kids. The whole experience was American Grossness on a patriotism-testing scale. Not going back to McDonalds for another long while.

One photo from the Ansel Adams exhibit in particular stays with me. It's a picture of aspens, with a short, brightly lit tree in the foreground surrounded by the ghostly trunks of rows upon rows of slim trees so tall only their matching branchless trunk bases are in the frame, like marching lightning bolts. I liked several photos in the exhibit a lot, but that one in particular is stuck in my head like a catchy tune.

0.0 / 429.6