During Le Night:
Around 3am, I woke to a fully kinetic tent. I paused to take it in, but after a stronger gust, I hopped out to attempt a better staking. Sand! Foiled! For all of its wonderful features, (including "adequate size" and "operational door flap") our tent is a hopeless mope in the face of wind. It's one rope shy of life as a kite.
The wind speed increased. Our tent threatened collapse, but refused to commit. Had humans not laid inside, I doubt Ol' Greeny would have stayed on the ground.
I tried hard to keep sleeping. I crossed my fingers that the tent would just fold down on top of us and decrease the racket. Instead, she remained dizzy and confused, while my irritation finally boiled down to action. I laid for two sleepy hours before springing to my feet. At 5am, we shuffled toward a car-based setup.
Had it not been for that one night in Kansas, I might have been scared. Not close now. Upon exit, I found the winds strong but non-threatening, and this annoyed me more. Allow me to slumber, you clown-assed rig! Nay. Ol' Greeny complains too much.
I was dirty-grease, hunger-bone and chilly-sleeved. I wanted a facility. La Festiva wanted fresh oil. I needed to make some calls and decisions. I could use an internet? Minor naggings proceeded to pressurize my potato soup. At last, we decided to drive downward and postpone our hiking plans. A true boon. (Fuck this chilly wind anyway.)
Enter: Blue Adderall Pill (Amphetamine Salty Something-Or-Other). 10mg is Popeye's spinach. I wish I could grow this mind-spinach organically, but at this point and age, I'll take whatever happens to help. It helps. My tired eyes became focused and alert. Noise and anagrams became calm coherent phrases. A list from the mist: Oil Change / Get Breakfast / Transfer Money / Hotel Deal?
Like any average human on any given day, I could grasp a concise to-do list. I pulled untapped energy from my pocket like a forgotten twenty. I walked, absorbed sunshine, and checked items off a list.
Until I was thirty years old, I had no idea what productivity felt like. I only knew I had a battle with basics: I could barely lift a telephone or get my clothes to the dryer in under thirty days. Confounding, abounding, surrounding... astounding. Errands equal Everest. It's enough to make a guy... say-for-example... move into a van and eschew every possible responsibility. (Which works, please do it.)
My avalanche of inputs became a bulleted task list. A cavalcade fell wayside; paltry and laughable.
I typed a dice-roll in on Priceline, and got a surprise promise of a roof in Palm Springs. Sleep and a shower? Square deal.
Bullshitters on Parade:
Palm Springs is Boca Raton of the west. Geezers and golf clubs. Country clubs and sprinkler systems. A swath of fast traffic bisects a homogeneous eye-roll of car dealerships and sports bars. Palm Springs is a playground for men who wear buttoned shirts as their most casual wear. These folks have solid black credit cards, and it's impossible to guess what will make them smile or frown. Palm Springs is comfortable, but nothing feels farther from home.
"Just passing through," I promised my imagination: I am here as a journalist... I cannot play your "golf." You do not need to call somebody - I will leave directly once I finish this waffle.