it takes a village to keep me from smoking
Walked to my most favorite mission deli/shop, my dog terrorizes the owner on a daily basis. During a severe moment of weakness, "American Spirits Lights, please."
The owner, winks at the dog, a friendly gesture, I'm sure there is something between him and Simon, he looks at me and says,
"I thought you quit smoking."
"Uhhhm oh no I haven’t. I just haven't smoked in a month."
"No, no no" he says pulling the cigarettes back, and handing me my money, godamn California. My chest is heaving, I don't know why, I should be over this addiction by now, it's just that it's raining, and I've had a touch of bourbon, and I'm trying to write something, which sometimes gets me really fidgety; who knows, this man could be the down fall of my creative vein.
"No," he says, "one month, you cannot smoke, go take your dog for a walk."
"Shit, well I owe you .15 cents anyway for the beer last night."
"You do? Okay, now get out of here."

So maybe more about my trip back to SF.
I was in Fort Worth, Texas when last we... and I'd failed to mention that, yes, I did actually meet that handsome Texan, only it wasn’t in the Super 8 Motel pool it was at the Bennigan's, across the parking lot, next to the conoco, where I bought my toothpaste. "Paul", he was the waiter and, about 7 inches shorter than me, and about as much my junior. "Oh, Paul", I would say to him, as he'd lie a charm between my bites of ceaser salad, scooching next to me on the Bennigan's Bench Seat(tm). He'd never been outside Texas, he said, and Paul was in college, yet a mature 31 years old. "Oh Paul", I couldn't help saying it. I wanted to rock his world and tell him about the girlfriend of mine, a leather worker in Brooklyn, who designs deer skin bikinis for Levis, or describe the incident at Siberia Bar, where the Christina Ricci bartender and about 7 shots of vodka lured me back to her flat, anything outside his world would have blown him away, so taking him back to my hotel room seemed too easy. I went home alone, goodnight Paul.

The parents’ Oldsmobile and me made it back to Littleton, Colorado safely, at 11pm the following night. Reunited with my truck, I b-lined it straight to my cousin's 21st birthday at The Skylark, in Denver. Pale and exhausted, my cousins' welcome embrace was not sober, and oh so very festive, something about the fatted calf, and a long journey. My family is fantastic, and crazy, and I am thinking about taking them on tour, so you can buy tickets online, we'll be at Roseland in January. Darien, the 21 year old, does a fantastic impression of a Velociraptor, loping, screeching just like a Jurassic reptile would, and leaping from one kitchen counter top to the other. (No shit, the 180-pound kid, leaps! Just imagine Kids in the Hall, meets the Kitchen scene from Jurassic Park, clicking toenails and all.) Side bar about Darien, which may explain some things. When he was very young the older cousins and his twisted sister Kelly, who was my only link to anything cool in the 80's, including "Purple Rain", Nogales, Mexico and Budweiser beer, tricked him into believing the elves were coming to get him, because he was so bad. The prank worked, Darien sat quietly on the couch till Christmas Day and Aunt Claudia really didn't care how we did it, because hey, the spoiled brat was quiet for the first time in four days, every since she'd drugged him with Robutissin for the trip from Tucson to Littleton.
"Um Darien honey, you sound like you're getting a little sick."
"No I'm not mom, I feel fine."
"No, honey, I think you should take some of this."