That was sixty hours ago. I'm tired enough now that I checked into a hotel to write. I remember stealing a firetruck in Berkeley and riding north, radio pounding out the phat beats, until the truck ran out of gas somewhere in the forests of Oregon. I remember hunting in the forest, convinced I was a wolf, until I met a runaway teenager on a motorcycle with a monkey on his shoulder. We rode into Portland and got a gig at a local pub, borrowing instruments from the opening act. I washed my face in the men's room, and we went on stage - me, the teenager and the monkey. Serious, hardcore, dirt-in-the eyes rock-and-roll. Unfortunately, we weren't very good. The bartender was angry at us for doing such an awful show and he only gave us a grudging thirty-five dollars. I never did catch the kid's name, and, in case you're wondering, I definitely didn't have any alcohol.
The next thing I remember, I'm in a bus stop in Chicago. Suddenly it's Friday, I'm dressed as a doctor, I've got an astrolabe hanging from my neck, and somehow I have the laptop I'd left back at home in Pacifica. If the clock is right, it took me about half an hour to walk seven miles. I don't remember how I got here, but I remember convincing the clerk to give me a room for free. I should probably call my boss and explain my absence.
Anyway, the can is still half full. Want the rest?