Call it a summer vacation, but I never intended this site to seem moribund for so long (since June 8). As usual, I've got sporadic entries jotted in notebooks with which to speckle the time between then and now, but that was never the point of this thing anyway. I will fill in some of those gaps, because I want to, but the important thing is to get back to creating that breathing space on a daily basis.

It's been hot as the dickens in Oakland for the last few days and I just can't muster the energy to do much of anything. I think I'm still in the trough of a post High Sierra Music Festival depression. Funny, though, because I felt like my batteries had been recharged when driving home last week.

x

Good a place as any to publish my first story, a copy of which my mother's been carrying folded up in her pocketbook for years. Note the plagiarism from Ian Fleming, even at that tender age, and evidence that red has always been my color of choice:

The Red Car
by Christian Crumlish
1-A

Once there was a man.
He had a red car. His name
was Fred. He was a nice man.
He liked his car. One day he
was riding in his car and he got lost.
Then he saw a button. It said it
was a special button! So he
pushed it and started to fly and
never was seen again and that
was the end.

Good Bye.