rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

Mike calls me yesterday morning.
“what are you doing.” it wasn’t a question; hence, no question mark.
it was 8 a.m. “I’m sleeping.”
“dude, you gotta do me a huge favor.”
I drove up to San Bernardino to get a copy of his birth certificate, then FedExed it overnight to DC. cause he lost his passport and he’s going to the Bahamas with cousin David next week. the fucking Bahamas.
whole trip took me like five hours. but I stopped at an In-N-Out in Palm Springs, and them’s some good burgers, so it evened out.

I haven’t been able to sleep very well recently, but not tonight. I’m fucking beat, man. actually, as we speak, I’m at work — no one else here — because San Bernardino set me back a couple of hours. that’s fine. it’s nice here when it’s quiet. I can hear the press humming over “Full Moon Fever.” fuck yes.

I think I’m going to try to go to a Padres game next weekend. I was going to move for one Saturday, but it’s their opening series. don’t imagine I’ll be able to get tickets.
then again, it’s Easter. does MLB stop for Easter? and if not, does anyone go? I’m not doing shit, I’d imagine; I’m a Christian by association, as my parents took halfhearted stabs at raising us in a religious household, so some sort of Christian morality probably rubbed off on me. I was an altar boy for five years. how many young American males can say “I was an Orthodox altar boy” truthfully? not something one normally brags about. but for those not in the know: it involves a lot of standing about, Port wine, elderly eastern European people and fucking around with lit candles.
I don’t have any plans to change the absence streak this weekend. but maybe that odd sense of guilt and purpose will kick in like it has in the past and I’ll go. I went in college once, and my roommates scoffed at me (take a bow, Smith). fair enough. I go for the sense of familiarity. say what you will.
or maybe I’ll skip it, the Padres (the fucking Padres) will play, and I’ll watch a baseball game instead. and yell “He Is Risen” from the upper deck.

went to San Felipe this weekend. I’m just a little sunburned. that warm feeling you have after sitting in the sun for an afternoon? that’s it.
it’s like, what, two hours from here? on the Sea of Cortez; a town of 30 or 40 thousand. I was told it was going to be a spring break scene, but it’s definitely more of a local destination; like where middle-class Mexicans go on vacation.so. it was like the Jersey shore, only everything is in spanish and you can drink beer just about anywhere you want. which is an interesting novelty; it’s more interesting to think that the cops have plenty of shit to worry about other than public intoxication. there was a checkpoint in the desert about half hour outside of town. federal soldiers. sandbags, body armor, what looked like M-16s. you’re a long way from El Centro.

it’s pretty cheap, all in all. our room was $90 for an evening, which you’d think would be pretty expensive for Mexico. but it wasn’t, considering the location and the view. literally on the beach. balcony that overlooks the waterfront strip. that was a constant source of entertainment; kicking your feet up, turning up the television so you can hear the dub of “XXX: State of the Union.” watching people buy bootleg DVDs from six-year-olds wearing backpacks bigger than the rest of their bodies.

and now, the explanatory pictures.

“XXX: State of the Union” in spanish. I wasn’t kidding.