Let me clue you in to a dirty little secret of mine: I barely ever shave my legs! This might sound counterintuitive for someone who makes a living as a nude model, but the reality is…when your tits/ass/twat are on display, no one’s looking at your leg hair. Your shins could be as swarthy as Chewbacca’s, but as long as you have a bald or neatly trimmed pubis, you’re golden. Back when I used to give a fuck, I shaved my legs every other day, and my armpits even more…but now, I only bother shaving anything if I have a special shoot or a hot date. The rest of the time…well, you can call me Sascrotch!
But after spending 10 days in pajamas at my mom’s house over Thanksgiving, on my way back to Vegas I stopped for a 5-mile run in Bakersfield (yes, I’m
that hardcore about fitness)…and as I ran along the scenic Kern River Trail, I noticed my leg hair had gotten so long, I could feel it rustling in the wind. Yikes!!! Once I got back to Vegas, I jumped straight into the shower and shaved the NorCal off.
The main reason I shaved was, I had this sort of fantasy wrestling gig booked the next day — a Canadian fetish site had hired me to play-wrestle some Amazon-type chicks, and I thought it might behoove me to look conventionally attractive for such work…or at the very least, make me more aerodynamic and provide less grip for my opponents. Say what you will about me, I do give 110% at every job I do…no matter how hopeless the outlook 🙂
But even though I’d shaved and moisturized and taken extra pains with my appearance that morning…when I woke up, it just turned out to be one of those days. I woke up with a case of the uglies: puffy face, swollen eyelid (I am prone to what I assume to be a sort of inexplicably unpredictable blepharitis from time to time, that makes my left eyelid swell up out of nowhere), and a general sort of malaise attributable to the fact that my Aunt Flo was banging on the door, on the verge of barging in at any moment. UGH!!!! I was not feeling very sexy.
Still, I sacked up, threw some skimpy sportswear in my bag and headed over to the hotel suite where the wrestling matches were to be filmed. As of yet, I had no idea what I was in for — I assumed it would be like the mudwrestling shtick I used to do, where it’s just fun and silly, chicks writhing around pretending to be badasses, but secretly semi-choreographed. No harm, no foul — all in good fun. HOW WRONG I WAS!
This particular wrestling fetish site (I don’t know the URL) is hardcore — all about seriously strong women wrestling each other for real. Now, obviously, I’m not a real wrestler or even a very strong person — I lift weights mainly for aesthetic purposes, and have never been able to do even a single pull-up. But the guy who runs the site has seen me in action before, and knows that I’m fairly strong for my size, and scrappy. So he thought it would be a good idea to match me up with three bigger, stronger opponents as a sort of comparison exercise. The other girls knew I was a rank amateur, so the idea was they would go somewhat easy on me, while still putting me in my place.
I had done something similar back in the day, when I play-wrestled this bodybuilder model named Megan Avalon for a different fetish site — but she was cool, and went totally easy on me, and didn’t beat me up or anything. This time, things were different. I had three matches, and if I was able to go the full 15 minutes each match, I’d make a cool $100 per match, so $300 total. I did have the option of tapping out halfway through a match, in which event I’d still earn $50 for that match….but hell, if I’m gonna do a job, I’m going all the way, dammit! Pain and humiliation be damned!!!!
So I changed into some booty shorts and a sports bra and faced off against my first opponent, Miss Daisy Ducati of San Francisco — a beautiful black girl with pink hair and long, strong legs. She toyed with me like a cat batting around a doomed mouse, but overall she was cool and didn’t come on too strong, and I survived.
After an hour or so break I went up against my second opponent, this MMA fighter named Mika or Meka something, who looked truly terrifying but wasn’t too bad — again, she batted me around and roughed me up, but at the end of it I emerged more or less intact, with just a little melted makeup (it gets sweaty, grappling around like that) and mussed hair. I was offered the option of another hour-long break, but I foolishly turned it down as I had another photo shoot I had to get to directly afterward…so I agreed to go ahead and wrestle my third opponent more or less right away, in the interest of saving time.
By now I was pretty winded, but had enough energy to attack this third match with a reasonable amount of
gusto — I figured this opponent would be the easiest, as it was a local model I sort of knew, Jolene Hexx a/k/a Jolene the Valkyrie, a girl-next-door-type brunette who didn’t look too scary at all. But looks can be deceiving — that chick is strong!!! Maybe it was partly because I was already winded from my first two matches, but I was powerless in her arms — she crushed me! Her upper body was amazing, but it was her legs that really literally almost killed me — she got me in a scissor hold between her legs, and I honestly think she fractured or at least badly bruised one of my ribs, because as I sit here typing this over a week later, I’m still suffering :/ It was my fault, since I was trying to put on a good show and out of pride/stubbornness refused to tap out until I absolutely had to…at which time it was probably already too late.
Anyway, when that third and final match finally ended, I was a sweaty, miserable mess. My hair was matted, my makeup had almost completely melted off my face, and my puffy, swollen eye was watering, causing my mascara to run in a most unbecoming fashion. My neck was scratched and bleeding, my chin was scraped, and if my rib wasn’t fractured, then my ego certainly was. But what was especially astonishing to me was the mental anguish I was suffering — I knew it was all pretend, just fun and games for some man somewhere to jerk off to, and that I mustn’t take it personally — but I couldn’t help it; I felt really defeated. I got beat up once or twice by mean girls back in high school, and I guess the pain and humiliation of those defeats was still lurking somewhere in my subconscious, all along…just waiting for the opportunity to come rushing back. Dammit!!!
So I collected my $300 and limped out of that hotel room a total wreck, broken and defeated. What can I say…I’m a lover, not a fighter, so I hereby announce my retirement from all types of wrestling — mud, pudding, fetish or otherwise. It’s just not worth it!!! Not only is it mentally draining, but it’s physically very dangerous and I’m really lucky I didn’t permanently injure myself in a major way. Nobody wants to hire a paraplegic model!
Anyway, I didn’t have much time to stew about it because as mentioned, I had another photo shoot immediately thereafter; this super-nutty photojournalist who shoots for Magnum.com, Bruce Gilden, was in town shooting B & W portraits of Vegas Women, and he wanted to do me. I guess the point of the story was to show Vegas Women’s faces — not their tits or asses, as normally photographed…just their faces. You know…to show their depressing character.
Well, I already knew Bruce and his shtick from back in 2011, when he was shooting a story on the foreclosure crisis and photographed/interviewed me at my old house, the one I ended up short-selling for a song to some assholes. I know his style: very unflattering Diane Arbus-type stuff that shows the ugly truth…and indeed, the shots he took of me back then were anything but flattering, and could in fact be more aptly described as pathetic and tragic.
But I agreed to shoot with him again anyway, because I’m a huge fan of the ugly truth, and there I was: bruised and scratched and badly beaten from a wrestling match in a semi-seedy Vegas hotel room. How much more ugly truth can you get?!? I’m all about documenting my fucked-up life, so let’s go. So, as soon as I got home from my wrestling fiasco (I did spend a few minutes fixing my makeup…I’m not that into the ugly truth, lol) I met Bruce and his assistant in the street in front of my house, and we bullshitted awhile before he finally snapped one frame of my face. I haven’t seen it yet, but he literally only took one frame…so I’m sure he knew what he was doing. That guy is legit as fuck — he was even featured on Vice.com as one of their favorite photojournalists, and all that lucky fucker does is travel the world photographing interesting people/freaks on commission for Magnum. What a killer gig!!!
Once Bruce and his assistant left, I tried to go about my business as best I could — I had planned to hit the gym for a weightlifting sesh, but my body was so sore from wrestling that I had to skip it, and just limp around to the bank and the post office and stuff like that instead. I tried to take ‘er easy, as the next two days I had 10-hour gigs booked as a mascot at some Sony PlayStation event, and I needed my strength for that.
But the next morning I woke up feeling even worse — like a busted-up old rodeo cowboy, with aches and pains in my neck, shoulders, ribs and my left foot, which hurt so bad I was afraid it might be broken. The last thing I felt like doing was stumbling around all day in a heavy, hot, unwieldy mascot costume…but I hated to bail on a gig at the last minute, and I needed the money, so I creaked out of bed and got ‘er done.
Besides…limping to work, I thought of all the construction workers and ditch diggers and bronco busters across America who wake up feeling that way every morning, but simply pound some aspirin and get to work. America™: Brought to you by Ibuprofen! As the daughter of a laborer and the granddaughter of cotton-picking migrants, physical suffering is in my blood — I come from a long tradition of people who made their living using their bodies…and while I don’t generally do labor-type jobs, just like them, my income is tied to my physicality nonetheless.
Incidentally, I find it ironic that it’s socially and morally acceptable for laborers, cowboys and athletes to make money with their bodies…but not prostitutes. WHY IS THIS? Why is using one’s vagina/anus/mouth to make money worse/more shameful than using one’s back/shoulders/arms? It’s all the same stuff — muscle and blood and skin and bone, a mind that’s weak and a back that’s strong. If I had rented my vagina instead of my ribs, I’d have been in a lot less physical pain the next day/week/month. You don’t hear any call girls singing “You suck sixteen dicks, what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt.” But because there’s such an inexplicable taboo surrounding sex work, I’d still probably end up facing a world of pain — only psychic, not physical. Again, WHY IS THIS?
Aaaaaaanyway, as it happened, the mascot costume I had been assigned at the PlayStation event turned out to be super comfortable — the most comfortable costume I’ve ever worn as a mascot, in fact; basically just a morphsuit with a hooded cloak over it, and a sort of fencing mask over that. The only inconvenience was a slight stuffiness and poor visibility due to the mask, so I had to rely on my assigned handler to lead the way, following her around like a downtrodden, burqa-clad Muslim wife trailing her husband.
My job was basically to walk around this convention center full of gamer kids, posing for photos and interacting with fans — I was dressed as a character from some weird video game I’d never heard of, but apparently it was very popular with the pimply hordes who had flocked to this convention from all across the land. Who knew there was even such a thing as a PlayStation Experience? Not me!
I have a hard time relating to gamers — there’s so much awesome shit to do out there; why would you waste your life sitting in a darkened room playing video games??? But as the convention wore on, I found them becoming oddly endearing; for the most part they struck me as gentle, sweet nerds who prefer escaping into other worlds to engaging in the thuggish bullshit that preoccupies other youth. I mean, you don’t see these guys tagging walls or robbing convenience stores…ya know? Let them play, I say!!
Either way, overall it was a great gig — the walking helped work out my aches and pains, and the event staff was really amazing. Usually at these mascot gigs, they stick you in a hallway or a utility room for your breaks, but not here; we had a huge dressing area with a lounge area and plenty of delicious catered food. The other mascot actors were all cool, too — I met a dashingly handsome little person, a yoga instructor who gave me stretching tips, and several handsome young actor/models from L.A. and Vegas…so the time really passed quickly. Great gig!
Now, I had only come back to Vegas for a few days to make some money and take care of household matters before heading back out on my next adventure. But before leaving town, I had one more thing to do — my good friend J.R. had invited me to go see John Prine & Iris DeMent live in concert at the Palms! I’m not a huge John Prine fan like J.R. is, but I like some of his songs…so as soon as I got out of my mascot suit that night, I hurried across town and met up with J.R. at the show. I tried to get high in the bathroom beforehand, but they had one of those damn restroom attendants in there, so I could only sneak one toke…but as it turned out, that was the perfect amount for my lightweight ass; I got just enough of a buzz to where I thoroughly enjoyed watching the show. Especially the audience!!
This was right in the thick of Rodeo season in Vegas, when all the cowboys and whatnot descend on Vegas for two weeks every December, so the audience was mostly full of Baby Boomer rodeo folk and a few 30-something hipsters. But after the show we went out into the casino for a nightcap, and that was a real shitshow! Cowboys, hipsters, the usual Vegas ho-bags…and an astonishing number of super-decked-out drag queens!! Apparently there was some kinda drag queen convention going on that weekend, too. That’s what I love about Vegas — the mishmash of weird subcultures you get, all mixed together on any given weekend. My favorite thing is when you see some kind of crossover from one culture to another — like if I’d seen a drag rodeo queen (which alas I did not). I did wonder if there was anyone else at the John Prine show who was also attending the PlayStation Experience…but I’m pretty sure I was the only one 🙂 I cross all boundaries!!!!
Anyway, the very next day after collecting my blood money from all these various gigs, I got the fuck out of town and went back out into the desert for some peace and quiet. The plan was to meet my sister out in the Mojave National Preserve for a few days of camping — despite the chilly weather and my still-aching body, there was no way I was missing out on that! Camping out at the Kelso Dunes has been on my bucket list for years, so I piled a bunch of blankets and pillows and schnapps into my truck and headed out to meet up with her. There’s not really any cell reception out there, so we arranged to meet at the Kelso Depot, an old railway station in the middle of the Preserve, at noon.
Once I found my sis, she took me to the campsite she’d set up, waaay out behind the dunes off a three-mile dirt road in the middle of nowhere. She’d already been there a couple days (my sis is a real badass), so all I really had to do was set up my bed, with plenty of padding for my bruised/fractured rib, and I was good to go. We made some hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps, then set off to hike to the top of the tallest dune.
Hiking those dunes is a killer workout! I’m not sure how tall they are, but they go on and on, and they’re closed to vehicle traffic so you needn’t worry about sand-railin’ rednecks or idiots on quads and whatnot….you can just enjoy the utter stillness and unmarked beauty of the desert. Once you get to the top, the view is amazing — just miles and miles and miles of sand, sagebrush and mountains all around you. Gorgeous!!!
Then, when you’re ready to descend, you can simply sit on your ass and slide down. The Kelso Dunes are known as “booming dunes,” since they make a weird, eerie sort of didgeridoo sound when the grains of sand rub against each other as you slide down — and they are one of only a few such dunes in the entire world. It has something to do with the diameter and the silica content of the sand grains; I’m not exactly sure. But it’s awesome!!!
Anyway, we spent the next couple of days camping and exploring around the fabulous Mojave National Preserve — a sorely underappreciated swath of desert between Vegas and Wonder Valley (between I-15 and I-40, basically). It’s a vast stretch of parkland with an astonishing variety of landscapes — aside from the dunes, there are also Joshua tree forests, mountains, caverns and canyons.
Alas, the caverns were closed at the time of our visit, but we did some amazing hiking through a slot canyon with rings bolted into the walls, and across some amazingly beautiful desert scrubland. I wholeheartedly recommend this place to anyone with an appreciation of/love for the desert — camping in many places is FREE, and the place is so vast and so seldom visited that you could go days without seeing anyone!
After a couple days of sleeping in a freezing tent in the desert, we had planned to drive back up north to my mom’s house in the redwoods on the Russian River north of San Francisco…but a huge storm had just blown into the area up there, and knocked out the power and whatnot, so my mom advised we wait another day before heading up. Since the weather was still OK down in the So Cal desert, and we weren’t too far from Deep Creek hot springs, we decided to head over there to soak and camp another night.
Along the way from the Mojave Preserve to Deep Creek, we stopped at the ever-fabulous Baghdad Cafe on Rte. 66 near Newberry Springs for breakfast. This kitschy tourist stop was as sunbaked and covered in French graffiti as ever, and the food was as greasy and subpar as always. The only changes I could see since my last visit a year ago were that the abandoned motel next door had been boarded up,
and they had trucked in some busted-up old Airstream trailers for photo ops and ambiance. Though the Airstreams had only been there less than a year, the interiors were already covered in French graffiti — those fuckin’ frogs love that place! As a matter of fact, Euros of all stripes love it — there was plenty of German scribbling too, and even a sticker for some Norwegian women’s motorcycle club (!!!). As gross as the food is here, I’ll never pass thru the area without stopping here for a meal!
Anyway, after breakfast we tooled along
to Apple Valley and set up camp at Deep Creek. The easiest access to the springs from the east is through private property, the Bowen Ranch — the rancher charges you $5 for day use or $10 for overnight “camping,” though all you really get either way is a parking spot on a litter-strewn overlook; the springs themselves are a 2-mile hike down the canyon onto U.S. Forest Service land. Apparently there’s another trailhead nearby, called the Freedom Trail, that is NOT on private land so you don’t have to pay…but the guy who runs Bowen Ranch supposedly tries to cover it up so you’ll use his entrance and pay him the cash, so that trailhead is harder to find. Allegedly, the Bowen Ranch guy has even gone down and shot up the windows of cars parked at the Freedom Trailhead…so be advised!!
I don’t go that often, so I don’t mind paying the $5 or $10 — but in this case it was kinda ridiculous, since my sis and I both had our cars so we ended up shelling out $20 to park on a barren, litter-strewn hilltop all night. Whatevs! Last time we went, we packed all our gear down the trail to the actual springs, and camped out on the beach there. But this time, in winter, we didn’t feel like carrying all those blankets and pillows and whatnot down there…so we decided to sleep in our cars up top, and just hike down to soak.
My sis has a 4-Runner, so she can fold down her back seat and sleep fairly comfortably. She offered to let me sleep in there with her, but I decided to just make a bed across the bench seat of my truck cab, and sleep in there. It’s almost wide enough for me to stretch out all the way, and since I had so many pillows and stuff with me, I was able to make it tolerably cozy. Still, I don’t really recommend it; I need to get a camper shell, already…ASAP!
Anyhoo, after setting up “camp,” we mixed up some more cocoa with peppermint schnapps and headed down the trail to spend the evening soaking. We got to the creek around dusk, and it was amazing — the trees were all orange and yellow, and it was even better than the summertime, in a way, since there are less douchebags down there this time of year! The only downside to Deep Creek in the winter is, if you come from the east, you have to wade across the Creek to get to the springs — and boy is that water cold!! In the summertime, the creek is warm and pleasant…but wading across it in winter is a real Scandinavian-style trial by fire. But I actually kind of dig it; it makes it more of an adventure! Plus you have the wonderful warm springs waiting for you on the other side 🙂
We soaked until late in the evening, under an almost-full moon, along with an assortment of kooks and local characters who offered us everything from mushrooms to moonshine, and a few things in between. Can I just say again how much I freaking love that place?!
Eventually, we dried off and bundled up above the waist and waded back across the freeeeezing water, which was admittedly zero fun at night, when all you’re facing is a long cold night sleeping in the cab of a pickup truck :/ But we did remember to use an old locals’ trick, and fill an empty water jug with hot spring water…so at least when we got to the other side, we were able to douse our freezing feet in hot water before shoving them into our furry boots for the hike up. That hike up is pretty steep, too, so our blood was pumping in no time and we were toasty-warm.
In the morning, my sis had run out of propane for her stove…so we packed up camp and brought some instant Starbucks packets back down to the springs for a morning soak, and made coffee using hot spring water directly from where it spouted from the Earth. It was pretty good, actually! Many of the regulars down there swear by the water — they say it has all kinds of beneficial minerals, and lithium aplenty, too.
So we whiled away the morning and afternoon soaking and chatting with more of the regulars down there, including this cool local guy we’d met on our last trip there back in July, the Hot Springs Wizard. All this time, my sis and I were trying to decided where we should go/what we should do next — my mom said the storm was still raging, the river had flooded the roads, and nothing was expected to subside til Friday morning…so we had one more night to kill.
The problem was, it was a huuuuuge storm system that was basically blasting all of California, so there wasn’t really anywhere we could go camping to get away from it, unless we backtracked to Arizona or Nevada. We considered staying another night in our cars at Deep Creek, but I really didn’t feel like cramming in my cab again…so we finally decided to just head up north, and stop for the night in good old Bakersfield, where we could get a cheap motel and then continue on in the morning.
Boy am I glad we did — that storm really blew in with a vengeance, even in Bakersfield!! The next morning there were bits of palm tree and other detritus everywhere, so we just had a quick breakfast in this amazing old-school diner on Buck Owens Blvd., and then tooled on up I-5 to the Bay Area. Normally, that’s a suuuuper boring drive…but in the rain it was pretty cozy, and besides we were both listening to this amazing true-crime podcast called Serial, so the time passed like nothing.
We got to my mom’s house late in the afternoon, and it was true — the Russian River had flooded everything! All the vineyards were lakes, and everything was soggy and drenched. My mom’s house was OK though, and the sun had even started peeking through. Which was a great thing, since the very next day we planned to head down to San Francisco for SantaCon.
SantaCon is basically a giant, citywide pub crawl where thousands of people show up from all around the Bay Area dressed in Santa costumes, and engage in drunken revelry. I guess the people who started it back in the day intended it as more of a performance art/political statement-type thing…but it took off and sort of devolved into a drunken frat melee, basically. Now they have SantaCons in cities all across the U.S. (in Vegas they call it Santa Rampage), and it’s generally derided by the artistic elite as having jumped the shark. Well, I didn’t care…I wanted to experience it anyway!!
A friend of mine from Burning Man is the leader of an amazing brass band called the Brass Band Mission, and he had invited me to accompany them as they paraded through the streets of San Francisco, playing Christmas carols and jazz standards as part of SantaCon. O…..M…..G!!!!! I’ve never had so much fun in my life!!!!!!!!!!!
My sis and I rolled into the city around noon, found a place to park, popped some shrooms and met up with the band in Union Square. It was fabulous!!!! Everywhere you looked, there were thousands of people in Santa outfits — most of them pretty lame, to be sure; the chicks were mostly in corny slutty Santa’s Helper outfits, and most of the guys were dumbass bros in cheesy, unimaginative getups. But there were a few really creative, cool costumes and characters here and there that made the whole event worthwhile — and the band was so effing amazing, it made up for everything!!!
I cannot describe to you the sheer, unadulterated joy of marching down the middle of the street in Chinatown with a full ten-piece marching band blasting “Grazing in the Grass,” prancing and dancing and shaking a jingle bell so madly that my finger turned red and almost fell off, while hundreds of bemused Chinese merchants looked on in consternation, and passers-by in every
direction stopped to stare and even join in the merriment. It was like the circus, the carnival, Burning Man and Disneyland all rolled into one mobile party — and it was infectious!! This one janitor was sweeping the street with a broom, and my sis danced over and gave him a jingle bell, and before you know it, he was dancing, too! Just like something out of Sesame Street!! And I can’t tell you how many inscrutable old Chinese people I danced up into the faces of, shaking my jingle bell furiously until their stoic faces cracked into smiles, each and every one. I’M NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP!!!!!!
Ugh, it was incredible. The party made its way through Chinatown to North Beach, where it wound up in an alley named after Jack Kerouac, sandwiched between an old beatnik bookstore and a bourgeois literary coffee shop, where well-heeled tourists looked down from their second-floor tables and $12 lattes, smiling enviously at us crazy broke idiots and our madcap street jamboree. It was a total validation of the crazy pauper’s path I’ve chosen for myself — I’m telling you, I’ve never seen anything like it in all my days. The band was wailing, limbs were flailing, bells were jingling and people were flinging themselves about in a hopped-up booze-and-drug-fueled ecstatic, fantastic, joygasmic dance of sheer exuberance. FAR FUCKING OUT, MAAAAAAN!!!!!!!!
The parade eventually made its way all the way down to Washington Square Park, where it sort of got bogged down in the crowd of drunken idiots gathered there in the muck and the mud, hanging out drinking and braying in the shadow of a magnificent old cathedral that loomed over the whole sordid mess like a reproachful grandmother. By then, the band had sort of run out of steam, so I
hopped aboard a converted schoolbus that was blasting Fleetwood Mac, but the crew on board was all beer-swilling mooks and college-age gash, like a bad Burning Man turnkey camp circa 2014, so we got the fuck out of there and just headed back to our car.
I was still feeling the effects of the mushrooms, so walking through the city at night was magnificent — San Francisco at Christmastime, all lit up and sparkly and jam-packed with bougie twats toting Tiffany & Co shopping bags as they scurried from Saks to Starbucks and back again. Everyone was in awe of our costumes, and we were asked to pose for photos many times, always obliging with shroomy enthusiasm, even going so far as to pinch kids’ cheeks and exhort them to enjoy every single day of life!!!
Then every once in a while, a random leather-jacketed turquoise-laden pockmarked Indian would appear, or a shady bum offering weed and Oxycontin, or a fat hippie chick in a Phish t-shirt and peasant skirt, flip-flopping down the street blasting a YouTube documentary about a 40-year-old virgin on her smartphone. Gawd, I love that city!! If I could afford to, I’d probably live there — at least until I got tired of the cold and dank, that is. Then I’d hightail it back to the desert 🙂
Anyway, after that madcap 6-hour bout of marching, dancing and boozing, we got back in the car and drove back up north to my mom’s cabin in the forest. BOY, was I exhausted! Not only was I physically wrung out from all the dancing, but my rib still hurt, I had a bad case of jingle finger, and my toe was throbbing where I had cut it while making coffee down at Deep Creek. I’m a wreck!!!!
But when all is said and done, I’ll take the crazy seat-of-my-pants pauper’s life, any day. Like those bourgeois tourists looking down at us in Jack Kerouac Alley — you can’t BUY this kind of fun, motherfuckers; it just happens!! I’d trade a thousand Saks 5th Ave bags and a hundred Farallon steak dinners for one shroom-fueled street jamboree with a ten-piece brass band in an alley on a sunny afternoon, any day of the week!
Maybe that’s my problem.
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