Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great honor and pleasure that I share with you this ‘lil miracle. Without further ado…I present to you, dear faithful reader, Uwe Buble performing “Valerie” by Steve Winwood.
11am: I wish I could have a photo of myself getting on this airplane to Palm Springs. Kind of hilarious. I’m all dressed up in a black velvet blazer, black pencil skirt, black leggings, & black leather ankle boots, but my hair in the back is matted into a giant dread lock, I’m covered in bruises and I’ve had about four hours of sleep. For the past eight hours and for the next six I have a bag of bagels and room temperature cream cheese to eat. I’m boarding this plane dead last due to the magical status my father has built with his capable hands, and the only other folks on this bus are old, white, and clearly wealthy. The gentleman at the gate, just as I was running through scenarios of what-the-fuck-do-I-do-if-I-don’t-make-this-flight, says:
“Yes, Caitlin ******.”
“The one and only?”
“As far as I know.”
He hands me the boarding pass. “Door one.”
Phew. Thanks dad. I emerge into radiant sunlight under the endless blue sky facing one of those small planes they use to transport famous people. I have three bucks and some change in my bank account and I’m settling my young, low-rent ass into the thick leather of a first class airplane seat headed to the place where money goes to die.
I need a new perm. Left the tall ship yesterday- have grand plans of small boat sailing, archery, & letter writing. Explorations in key topics such as Frank Frazetta, alchemy, hair bands, leather chaps, moonshine, and turkey hunting. American South, here I come.
Well it turns out I’m not as much of a bigot as I try to be. I feel pretty guilty about that last post because while the people on the farm definitely were dyed in the wool, card-toting, patchouli-loving, flowy-scarf-wearing, “mana” discussing (and not in the sense of Magic the Gathering) hippies, it also turned out that they were super nice folks. When I showed my true black-as-night colors about a week in over aforementioned bottle of Sauza Gold, they listened attentively to my drunken sailor stories and showed geniune, keen interest when I tried to define for them what a juggalo is.
So here I am, I have friends who are hippies (unless they read this blog I guess). And I hope they would forgive me for all the accumulated years of remarks about white people with dreads. I am reformed. I have seen the light. I drink the Kool-Aid.
Now I am in San Fransisco. I get back on the tall ship tomorrow.
So, working on an organic farm in Hawaii- sounds great right?
Maybe I’m the last person on earth to realize this, but do you know what that actually means? Subsisting on all raw plant matter served up in our “jungle kitchen” (a fruit fly covered lean-to with a sink in it) to the sounds of erratically strummed power chords and stoners discussing “the energy” of various things.
I can’t upload photos, but they’re to come I swear. You have to see the photo of Bob Marley with “One Love” painted in swirly writing above it. Tonight is actually the best moment since my arrival-the hippies went swimming and I got a motherfucking beef burrito.
I’ve decided to start a series of covert projects. Project number 1 is to start cleaning stuff. I’m going to start cleaning the kitchen until it gleams, because they can’t say anything about it but they are going to HATE it. It’s going to fuck with their entire universe, and they won’t feel safe anymore talking about mana, claiming that hawaiian fruit cures cancer, and using indigenous slang even though they’re from the fucking mid-west. I will post before and after photos.
If you just got dumped or your life is a blur of meaningless repetition, I suggest you join the crew of a tall ship. The ocean will make you forget about everything, you will fall asleep and wake up in a place where the only realities are wind, rain, hard work, carb loading, lust and heavy drinking.