It’s a couple of days late, but I just realized it’s a 9-month-anniversary. I’ve been on the road for a solid nine months.

Nine months goes by rather quickly. Here goes - - -> I arrived to DC from BRC (and if you know what that is, you know how 100% different the two are ) on 9/9/07; and on to NYC; Boston; ABQ; Chicago; and then back home to Venice. I stayed in Venice for a few weeks, went to Northern California, then back to Venice, then on to Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee. From there I stayed in Venice a few more days and then again onward to the Seattle area and from there straight to Albuquerque again and then Santa Fe and now . . . South Carolina.

Whoosh! It doesn’t stop here. Oh no! I’m only here for a couple more weeks and then Whoosh! again . . .

For the past month, I’ve been driving one hour each way every day from ABQ to Santa Fe and then on top of that working a twelve hour day. That didn’t leave much for doing anything except going to Starbucks every morning, high-tailing it to Santa Fe, working and coming home. It even hurt to stop and get gas . . . . which of course, I had to do quite often.

I noticed the beautiful countryside of the high desert on some days, but most days I was just inside my own head, hoping to get to work on time, dealing with lack of sleep or feeling a little miffed that I didn’t have any time to do any real life stuff. The beauty was surrounding me, but I never could be in the moment and actually enjoy it.

I will be going back to ABQ and most likely to Santa Fe as well at some point and I will enjoy all that the wide sweeping vistas of New Mexico have to offer. But for now, as I told myself while I was zooming away the hours on the freeway between ABQ and Santa Fe, constantly scanning for the numerous police cruisers that frequent the area, I am going to enjoy the lesson that my month long drive time taught me - - I have two whole hours of my life back every day!

Am I going to be working long hours in South Carolina? You bet your sweet shugar ass I will be. But the perspective on suddenly having two extra hours every day to do . . . well, whatever I want is not lost on me now. It is a gift.

I don’t want to jinx myself by proclaiming out loud what I will do with my new found time, but let’s just say that the results will show, besides I’m still figuring out the ‘what’ part. Case in point - I slept in this morning . . . . a needed and quite necessary use of that precious time.

Ah have arrived, my shugahs. 

And aside from the taxi cab ride to my hotel and the ritual of hanging of christmas lights in my hotel suite . . . I have done not a damn thing except acquire frizzy hair and view some magnolia blossoms. All these things make me very happy.

Frank was EXceptionally good on the two plane rides, shuttle van ride, taxi cab ride and short subway jaunt it took to get here . . . nary a meow.

He’s not even holed himself up underneath the hotel bed yet . . . a new one for him . . . I think he’s getting the hang of this whole travel thing . . . but you can see for yourself . . . he’s become a blogger too . . . I was a bit afraid that the TSA might try to confiscate his catnip lined scratch pad as some kind of contraband, but that didn’t happen. There would have been some clawz flyin’!

The last couple of weeks have been a bit unstable. I knew I was moving, but wasn’t sure where or when or how . . . . my roommate and I finagled our way out of our lease, so whoo-hoo! I’m free to roam again . . . and that’s exactly what I’m going to do . . .

Sunday morning, Frank, the cat and myself will fly from ABQ to Columbia, South Carolina for a short bit of work. It’s going to be seat of the pants living at it’s best. We will be living in another fine hotel and may stay two weeks, maybe four and I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing or where I’m going after South Carolina. My stuff goes into storage in ABQ tomorrow and the car gets parked at the airport and I am done thinking about it all for a bit.

My granny’s 90th birthday party is in July, so until July, I’m not so worried about being in any specific place at any certain time. I’ve got lots of options, but as life has recently taught me - I have no idea what will pop up - and that’s OK - even exciting. Maybe Frank and I will kick it in Santa Fe for June, maybe Chicago, maybe LA, maybe Peru (ok, Frank can’t go to Peru). . . . maybe a shack in a redwood forest. Who knows?

I’m sad to be saying good-bye to G-unit so soon, but it’s time to move on . . . do what I do best. . . be an artist adventurer . . . keep livin’ the moments.

I forgot to pay my electric bill in Venice. But I didn’t suddenly remember that I hadn’t paid it. In fact, I thought nothing of it. I assumed I’d paid it before I left town. I get a bill every two months, and I’ve been gone a couple of months, so no big deal . . . right?

I got my latest package of mail shipped to Santa Fe from Venice. As I sorted through the bills, I notice the electric bill is red. Uh-oh . . . final notice. It’s May 7th. I had til April 29 to pay. No further notice given before power is cut off. Whoops. Hope the power’s still on for the house-sitter.

I call the electric company and pay over the phone immediately. “Hey,” I said to the customer service rep, “I’m just curious, how long has it been since I’ve paid my bill anyway? I thought I just paid it.”

“Hang on one second, ma’am.” I was on hold for at least one full minute.

He came back on the line, chuckling. “Well,” he said, “It looks like you gave us twenty bucks back in August of 2007 . . . .” 

Last year I worked on a film shoot where we had a mock-up liquor store scene. So, the show purchased several thousands of dollars’ worth of two buck chuck and King Cobra Malt Liquor in addition to having multiple liquor distributors pitch in truckloads of freebies for product placement.

After the show ended and the liquor store set was struck, all the good liquor went home with various crew members. No one ever called accounting . . . no, I’m not holding a grudge about that . . .  However, later I found that no one wanted the cases of King Cobra (or the chuck). Ain’t these people never hear’d o’ malt licka? Anyway, the set decorator was just going to throw the stuff away . . . and that’s when I had an idea!

I took all the chuck and any cases of old, hot beer that I could find and gave it away to my friends. I also took all the King Cobra home. And I saved it til the night of the next full moon. Then I put it all in the freezer for about 45 minutes, til it was nice and frosty. Then I went outside to take a peek onto the night time streets of my lovely Venice ghetto ‘hood, where, sure enough, there were crack dealers and prositutes galore. During the summer, there is alot going on out there and for some reason, the street activity picques even more during times of the full moon. So I thought I’d help out.

I brought the King Cobra outside, lined the street corner with it’s frostiness and left it sitting there for all to enjoy. I checked an hour later. No malt liquor on the sidewalk. Music pumped up a notch in the hood. Hookers dancin’ in the streets. This is how we roll in Venice.

Last night, I received my first fan letter from my dear, dear friend who shall only be named as K2.

Thanks K2 for making my night. I’m sure that there will be lots of dissappointed hunks out there, but I’m honored that you are saving your (hair) for me! K2 does know just how cheer a girl up - just last summer he saved me by handing me a beer and a joint and said, “AB, this is an intervention, honey. You must break up with that boyfriend of yours!”

SUBJECT: SHUTTING DOWN MY ESCORT BIZ 

Hey Guys,     I know this will come as a let-down to many of you hot men, but I am taking a hiatus from my popular Escort service. Yeah, I will miss the hot sex too. I must do so, however, in order to remain true to my Credo, “Pushing 50 and Still Cute!” 

You see, the wacky, wonderful Woman who was willing to assist me in coloring my hair has vanished. She may be in Peru, seeking psychedelic Cactus; or in Argentina, organizing farm workers; or in Gaza trying to rescue (or seduce) young Palestinians; nonetheless she is nowhere to be found. So, until I get to Supercuts for a trim – and get the sides colored up so I no longer look like a Super Delegate – I am taking a leave of absence.    

I will keep you all informed.    

Until then, I remain your humble, hot, and honest bottom,    
K2

I’ve been doing research into stress and the chemicals that stress pumps into your body and how some people get almost high on it.

I get edgy and my heart beats fast and I feel like I’ve had ten cups of coffee . . . my nasal passages open up so I can breathe fast, shallow breaths. Everything moves like sound that is sped up. But it’s the electricity firing off in my brain that really creates the buzz. Brain spins so fast, it’s like it’s doing jumping jacks, thoughts moving, flicking so fast that you aren’t conciously processing any of them anymore . . . it’s just like a steady stream of color or a cloth.

And you are focusing somewhere with your eyes at a tangible fixed point in front of you, but you aren’t seeing that fixed point - you are seeing that colored cloth pipeline that only exists in your sped-up spasming grey matter.

Somewhere up there in your noggin you know every single stitch and molecule of that rapidly moving, dazzling tapestry, but conciously, it’s just moving, flicking through your head like film at 24 frames per second, never seeing the gaps between the frames. You cannot hold a conversation or be present to another human.

It takes a long time to cool down and unwind. Sometimes it takes days or weeks. Sometimes months. Sometimes sleep patterns are disrupted; sometimes not. The managable peak, the worst I’ve ever experienced without cracking is the conversation point where when you are talking with someone, your end of the conversation is a hurried, broken, stuttered, “Um huh. um hm. uh huh.” You’re shaking your head uncontrollably like some kind of drug addict.

Because you are. That’s stress juice, baby.

Sometimes I get visions of a needle in my arm. That’s my inner voice, showing me that stress is my junk. And then . . . there’s the unmanagable kind of stress. ABQ has shown me mountains of it. I just want my regular stress level back!

The first time I drove into Santa Fe was last week. I noticed work crews of prisoners in orange jumpsuits picking up trash by the city roadside, in a heavy traffic area. A city bus pulled away from the corner, revealing more orange-clad workers, trash bags in hand, bending over.  And then all of a sudden, it was like slow motion. I watched one of the guys stumble and try to catch himself, but he just kept falling. I actually had time to think, “Oh my god, I think that guy’s gonna fall in the street!”

And then that is exactly what happened. I watched the guy fall - right into the busy six-lane divided highway - right in front of my car. Only thankfully he was up the street nearly a block, so by the time I approached, he’d already scrambled back up to the sidewalk.

It reminds me of the time I was riding my bike in Chicago under the Fullerton street exit off of I-95 . It was about 10PM. I was on a neighborhood street that sort of branched off from the on-ramp. I had to ride past the on-ramp entrance to continue down the street. And for some unknown reason, just as I rode across the on-ramp, I busted HARD and fast on my bike, a rarity for me.

The side of my face was all of a sudden lying flat on the smooth, oily pavement of the busy Interstate on-ramp and the wind was knocked out of me.  I actually had enough time to think to myself, “Holy Shit! I’m lucky that there are no cars coming at this moment!” before scrambling up and picking up my bicycle and getting the hell out of that busy thoroughfare.  

I had a pack of smokes in LA last weekend.

They dissappeared somewhere along the way. I didn’t really miss them too much and never gave a second thought about where they could have gone. But when I arrived home in Albuquerque, as I dug through my purse, searching for my keys or some such something, I spied a renegade object down there in the depths.

A piece of Nicorette, still sealed in it’s protective blister pack. . . . now I ask . . . whom among you is responsible? And did you smoke all my cigs at least?