We went out to the bar a couple mornings. This is a new style of going out, it seems, where getting drunk and more or less sitting in one place is an out-going activity. I can see where all the lonely alcoholics, 20-somethings and middle-aged introverts go to mingle--so far as Howell's Bar is concerned. The bartender had a dock worker's wife look and served over-priced booze in 8 oz glasses. 4.25 for a screwdriver was just barely worth it. Still, it gave Dork and I a chance to talk about some of the shit that'd happened, or just rambling about this or that.

I'd say the highlight of the last few days has been going out to Zug Island, this industrial bit of dandruff hanging off the boarded-up ghetto mop of town. We drove for some ways, pooled up along this road or that, and finally found and back-tracked to this cozy section that sported a fenced off processing plant to the left, dying trees to the right and a horizon of fire and steel. The Detroit River sat beneath the concrete enbankment I was on. I'd heard a story from Dork about how he had to get his stomach pumped just in light of falling into that thing. The fact that my camera and I were near the railing brought that memory to mind at least a few times.

I was having major trouble getting the tripod to fold out properly. I'd first noticed that one of the plastic 'holders' on the legs had broken off when I was doing downtown Detroit. Trying to get the remaining sliver to clamp down was a bitch. My thumbs felt like numb bricks being slapped by rubber. Still, I got the 3,000 foot high-rise of orange flame off in the distance and the refinery over to the side, even the bridge that led to that dead island. Dork mentioned as we were driving back that he knew someone who could get us onto the island itself.

It's too bad that plan didn't come together--but it does give me a reason for coming back, that along with Dork's excellent company and his cadre of hoons and cat hoons.

I never did get to read over and edit his upcoming novel. I guess the time passed by more quickly than either of us thought.

----

Soundtrack: "Lost in Space" by Aimee Mann.

The prospect of going back to LA isn't bad. I miss my car, of all things, and the bizarre antics of living with Ma and Scott.

I don't miss Discordia much, except for wondering how that last minute experiment went before I left. I could go in on friday, but fuck that. The new quarter begins next week on wednesday, so if Dr. Zivago doesn't reply back to my note about showing up for a monday meeting--then fuck that too, I'm not going. Call it my "vacation to home" readjustment period before having to deal with him again.

Seester has just phoned to say she's on her way. I suppose the lot of us will find some sort of eating thing to do, then it's off to the airport and being crammed into human baggage for 5 hours.

Overall, despite the troubles, I really needed this vacation to clear my mind and get re-focused. And maybe I just wanted to be lost in space for a time--enjoying the sensation of waking up to Belle and Sebastian, with the odd chores of letting the dogs out or trying to hammer out works and ideas with Dork.

It's been an alternative experience, in that 90's sense. I got to be younger again for awhile--and I liked that. I am coated with animal hair and quite happy. Those are the current constants.

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