Stranded Man / The Chicken of the Sea

The anxiety from the earthquake seems silly now, only two days distant. It's difficult to believe that it was as displacing as it was. The memory softens, recedes to the place where experiences can be safely relayed, retold. I imagine that the next one will affect me even less. In time, I'll be a true Californian, sleeping right through the tremors, dreaming of listening to The Eagles in the desert.

Early this morning, I can't sleep for all the other reasons. The terrors of normal life, no earthquakes to distract me from that.

Tomorrow morning I leave for Burning Man, I hope. There was a rainstorm/hailstorm up there so they have closed off the entrance.  They are concerned that it is going to be a muddy mess for everybody. So much for radical immediacy. 

They have turned the revelers back to Reno, unleashing them back into the wild.

I am looking forward to being back on the playa again. I have been rushing around trying to get all of the last minute supplies: scarves and beads and my old day-glo man-thong, etc.

Where have all my wigs and panties gone?

Did I really buy a 4-pack of albacore tuna to bring with me to the alkali flats? Seems improbable, disgusting even.

Eating canned tuna at an altitude of 3900 feet feels wrong, but so much of life feels wrong. We must learn to trust the food in the can. It is our friend.

That will be my slogan: Food is anything that can be a friend.

I've never met a tuna that I wanted to introduce at a cocktail party, though.

They will love my new dietary wisdom, out in the high desert of affluence, where the winds rip at the skinny people with gentle disproportion.

I am like a billboard turned sideways out there.

I should check into sponsorships.

Red Bull and the Starkist Bumble Bee...

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