I dream about California. Call it a simple Pollack dream, but the more I live in Chicago, the more I yearn for those white sandy beaches, the Pacific Ocean and the California sun. I dream about the women and the stars in the sky, the poverty and the unemployment on the rise. I dream of Chico's and gringo's and people selling "habanero's." I want the surf to hit me and hit me hard. I dream of walking down Sunset Blvd. and fending off bums. I dream of working for the press there. Yeah. I dream of covering the city of fallen angels.

I want to be a fallen angel.

The more I think about it the more I want to pack up my things and go. But with my degree in hand, God only knows what will happen. But I don't care. I want to be there. I want my life to be different. I want California.

And I know that if I go, I will not come back. I know this.

No matter how fucked up L.A. is.

It's the city of a million stories and a million dreams—all unrealized. It's the place where the Hells Angels—albeit in Oakland—began to wreck shit up.

I want to see the sun set and rise on that California beach. Call it California dreaming.

Alright

A federal court of appeals overturned a Washington D.C. gun ban stating that the Second Amendment does not only apply to militias.

Now we know that it's the right to bear arms not the right to arm bears.

However, I must say I have no problem with guns. They're loud, obnoxious and they hurt people—just like every roadie for Molly Hatchet.

I don't own a gun yet, but a nice Python would be nice.

Smoke if you got them

You know you smoke too much when the EPA is forced to consider giving you a pollution credit.

February is over

BUNKER—It's 20 minutes until nine, but I don't consider this to be a morning. As a matter of fact, after doing my calculations, I have been up for 25 hours—this was the witching hour. A bed and breakfast sounded good right now. Nothing beats the morning blues like the hues of the puke in the toilet.

It is strange when one meets people made out of the same ilk. It is stranger when one finds himself in a situation which requires going the distance.

What is comforting is that there still are creatures and maniac and loons out there that can definitely go the distance. They shall remain nameless.

This solidified the notion that, contrary to popular belief, you are not the only one.

But without warning, after I've returned to the bunker, I found myself in a weird predicament.

After 25 hours of what seemed like just walking the Earth, the first idea was to see how far I could go without sleep. It was time to give the mind and the body a workout. However, even now, more booze seemed like an endurance contest.

But for some odd reason the idea appealed to me. I've had one of those weeks. At this point, saying "one of those weeks" is useless if week in and week out it was "one of those weeks."

Appeal for the idea of going on a bender at this point had nothing to do with it when the body wants to quit.

I might need some healthy natural sleep after all.

I was done for. I knew perfectly well that if I hit the bed now, I would be kaput. I know a huge sleep deprivation debt will need to be paid sooner or later.

That's when the tequila showed up....