I'm in Sedona driving John's truck around because he had shoulder surgery and vicoden and needed a laxative and parquet courts just came on satellite radio in the parking lot of walgreens.
John had too many death-defying ultimate frisbee altercations. He lives in a trailer park. His landlord is Orson Welles's daughter.
Got home and fought my cold by ordering Jim Harrison's Letters to Yesenin, a poetry collection, which he describes as a triumphant suicide note. At first, I thought this meant that he achieved death by hand, but I suppose that would be a successful suicide note – triumph is beating death.
Been playing those ass-kicking synthesiser albums Stevie wonder cut in the 70s. Amazing!