Now Mike Pence, the ex-Vice President, has boxes of top secret documents that he had no idea were in his possession.
I know I am a little slow on the uptake, but who the hell is in charge of handing out documents crucial to the well-being of all Americans? If they are giving them to that nitwit, I better go check my garage in case the CIA left any boxes there….
When I set out on my own in my recently-purchased pickup truck I bought from my brother in 1975 my plans where I was going and what I was going to do were top secret.
Hell, I didn’t even know where I was going and what I was going to do, but I was young, good-looking, had some money and a lot of drugs.
I didn’t need money.
I had a lot of drugs.
One of the stops on my journey was in a California desert town with a lot of people who needed drugs. When my dog Chopper and I left, we were loaded (and rich, too!).
Even though the back of my truck was a total party wagon replete with a black light, posters everywhere, a dorm refrigerator, a Marantz pre-amp, eight Vox speakers, and two bean bags on very soft shag carpeting (hey, it was the 70’s), we pretty much stayed in nice hotels unless we were up in the mountains.
My buddies in Tucson installed a very nice boot to the back so Chopper would vary his time by sleeping on a beanbag and riding shotgun with me.
It didn’t matter where we were, I would let Chopper out and he would always come back when he was good and ready.
Our days consisted of driving, seeing something cool-looking and then we would go on an adventure to investigate. That was our modus operandi for pretty much the entire year.
Like his Dad, Chopper was a babe magnet. Young pretty women would be captivated by his handsome countenance and would invariably end up stroking and cooing to him.
Like his Dad.
I was talking to the Domestic Despot the other day and the subject of where do I want my ashes to be spread came up.
Anywhere is just a paean to the whole aura of death; mere symbolism, or the semiotics of transition?
I don’t really have a place, as long as she is the one deciding instead of the other way around.
I practiced six hours straight today in anticipation of our show, and then received a call from the Nursing home we were scheduled to play. We are rescheduling to this Friday instead.
Practice is never wasted.
Man, this Indica strain is called Problem Child and clocks in at 31.7% THC.
Big buds, plenty of kif and it had me using eidetic imagery and believing I could outswim a bunch of hungry alligators in the muddy waters of the Amazon River.