I'm off to the Mountain Aire music festival in Calaveras County -- land of the jumping frogs and crystal meth laboratories -- for which I've finagled a press and photo pass (the concert, not the labs). If I can't sell what results from this weekend as an article or ten, I will at least post it here. For now, I'll leave you with an excerpt from my upcoming novel:
"The last time I saw Stone Phillips, we were in Mexico City. We'd wandered into the wrong neighborhood, where we were confronted by a roving pack of toughs decked out with handlebar mustachios and leather chaps. Luckily, a fight broke out in a bar nearby and it spilled out into the street, engulfing us. The police responded. In the melee I ducked into the crowd and out of harm's way. Stone was not so lucky. As the police busted heads and I was borne away by the throng, I saw Stone, his pants around his ankles and his clothes in tatters, stumbling frantically up the alley into the darkness beyond, screaming "yo no soy homosexual! yo no soy homosexual!", with the gang members in hot pursuit. I'll never forget that night, especially the delicious enchiladas I had earlier at that quaint sidewalk cafe."