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’!

All before I come back - ahem - home. Err, well, that is to my (haha) Albuquerque storage unit and my car which I’m going to stash at the airport.

I have to pack for both. So I’ve done it . . . I’m traveling light and I’m traveling strange. This is a new one.

Among the standard fare like toothbrush and undies, I’m also bringing my roller skates, a cat litter box, camping tent, an alphabetizer and an array of sparkly stuff. I think that says it all. But every swath of strangeness fits snugly and conveniently into one rolling duffle and one box. 

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 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 Friday I jetted into work just having gotten off the set of a Lenny Kravitz video, obviously.

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.

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 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 grass isn’t always greener, but it’s clear where the septic tank lies.

*Oh Fuckity-Fuckn-FiddleFuckstix!

*The more stratified and crazy the world becomes, the more I am an axis unto myself.

*I’m a human being human, god dammit and sometimes that means tears flow.

It’s Monday, this is how I feel. No, I’m not PMS’ing.

Paperwork makes most people’s brains shut down. And that . . . is why I keep things on my desk like little plastic frogs, a glowing bloodshot bouncing eyeball, a book called How To Lie With Statistics, and a little bulldog that pisses water. (The bulldog is for when people turn in crappy invoices - I squeeze; he pisses on the offensive bill.) And I love, love, love to force big manly teamster-type dudes to hold my light-up Winnie The Pooh pen in their greasy fingers when I need them to sign something. Fun stuff distracts and makes folks forget their belief that math is hard.

Yesterday, a stand-in came into the office to get a time card. She needed a pen. I told her, “Use my Winnie The Pooh pen.” And she left with it. I stormed out into the production office screaming, “Hey! Stop that stand-in! She bolted with my Winnie The Pooh light-up pen! Unacceptable!” Immediately the office PA took off in hot pursuit.

I got my pen back. Shew! I’m sure glad that we didn’t have to call the cops for any Pooh larceny.