Day One

It's been a little while since we last sat by the fire. Some shit has gone down as they say. My father died. He didn't "pass" as the African Americans say, he died. "Passing" is a dreadful euphemism for dying; you "pass" Driver's Ed, not life. In life you die.

I finished my first year of law school. We shall see if I passed that.

I broke up with my girl. It's a long torrid story, part true part myth. I will refrain from exploiting those hot little diddies until the statute of limitations passed. Just picture your boy standing on the sidewalk with his "crap" jammed into Hefty garbage sacks. It was eight-armed ugliness. The entire month of April and May I slept on my Road Dog's couch.

But this summer rises like a shimmering firebird hatched from its own ashes. I am on the road as they say. I can smell the smoke from the things I let sit while I finished doing their dirty work in Law School. All the feelings I let warm near the back bacon are up for order. I'm serving up my summer like a Denver Omellette with a side of Ortega chiles, hold the sour cream.

I left Los Angeles on Memorial Day. I wrote a letter to my father as sort of the champagne bottle to Christen the trip.

The first time someone mentioned I should write a letter to my dearly departed pa I almost gave his name to the Black Service to be disposed of with prejudice. This type of Kubler-Ross boiler plate rubs me the wrong way. It reeks of the nauseating 90's Ricki Lake type of "getting in touch" with your feelings. It seems to be up there with supporting a child's imagination by respecting his "invisible firend."

Who is going to read this thing? As far as I know the government does not make a stamp big enough to get a letter to the Afterlife. And I am not a fan of scurrilous characters like Jonathan Edwards of the "Crossing Over" fame. Most of it is like life, a bunch of Hogwash, signifying nothing.

But I wrote the letter on account that the other options is the "grieving" department are few and far between. I could avoid and ignore the whole thing, sort of like the alcoholic relative molding on the couch. The people in the Middle East scream. Some Native Americans beat themselves with branches. African Americans faint. Maybe the letter isn't a bad idea after all.

Then I read the thing aloud. My feelings were like the Bulls of Pamplona. Their nostrils and horns were pressed up against the gate--bursting to wreak havoc on the cobblestone streets. By reading the letter out loud I ripped the gate off the hinges.

The City if Angels mocks me in the rear view mirror as I point my car towards Arizona

In Arizona I will see my stepmother and sister. Then I will pick up some camping gear and head to New Mexico to see where Billy The Kid was murdered, and Roswell.