Vegas, baby

So I haven't been in the mood to write. Who can blame me? It was cold.
See, I thought I remembered cold. Cold was that unpleasant sensation
which was quickly cured by some warm body. Ah, no. Cold is that
desperate pain in the fingers which drives me haphazardly to gas
stations at 6am, looking for anything to cover my hands. Cold is peeling
off my gloves at 8am and looking at white and black pockmarks on my
fingers where flesh used to be. Scientifically, cold is the absence of
heat. In reality, it is the soft and drinking harmonies of my
suffering.

I swung by the hoover dam. It wasn't that impressive. I don't know what
I was expecting, but after all those movies and all those pictures and
all those stories, I expected something much more bigger, I guess. In
any case, it was worth a few snapshots and a rest.

Vtr touring is a bit different that vfr touring. The vtr isn't as
comfortable, but it gives me more passing grunt. The vfr is comfortable
and stable as a rock in the straights, but squirrelly in the twisties.
In any case, we need to modify the vtr seat as to not mollify my ass.

I have been trying to find the vegas man, and the vegas woman. I believe
I've found the vegas man sitting across from me. He is a pudgy middle
aged man with a long pony tail, a blue collared shirt, yellow pants of
sorts, and loafers. His wife walked by earlier. She may have been drop
dead a generation ago, but at the moment, she's a pantomime of youth
failed. The chicago man smiles his lopsided smile.

Twist and shout. D is out.
~ For we walk by faith, not by sight ~