I went camping last weekend all on my own. I took a book but only read thirty pages (the poor thing looks likr it came through the Blitz though), I did some drawing and I ate a lot of bannock and beans. It was great. I forget sometimes the curative powers of the great outdoors.
Of course I took cigars and booze, and I've been sleeping for almost forty-eight solid hours since I got home, but it's all good. It is also interesting being reminded what traveling and camping (ie: not bathing) can do to my hair... it makes it stick straight up like a cockatiel crest.
Of course I took cigars and booze, and I've been sleeping for almost forty-eight solid hours since I got home, but it's all good. It is also interesting being reminded what traveling and camping (ie: not bathing) can do to my hair... it makes it stick straight up like a cockatiel crest.
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His name was Bogart. I called him Bogie.
I kid not.
Camping... Ah... I miss it.
Yes, read Coupland's Life After God. If you drop by one afternoon you can borrow it.
Yes, it was Julius Shulman the photographer, and I didn't meet him, per se. I just photographed him from afar. Photographing the photographer... how postmodern of me.
Here's a pipe for ya!