Drove all the way down to Red Bluff. (“Red Bluff!” -Watt) Crashed out in some rest stop in between a couple sleeping minivans. Got pretty cold out. My toes were tingling. Rule one for car sleeping: Wear a knit beanie. A cold head means a cold body. Same goes for toes. Wear the shoes, that is, if you aren’t under a blanket/sleeping bag. And nothing sucks more than trying to fall asleep in yer shoes.

Got up, wiped the sleep outta the eyes and rolled down to the city by the bay. San Fran has always been good to me. I was at the SFO airport by 11am, meeting/greeting dad and our cousin John Johansen. Dad looked great.

We then caught the Bart into town, all the way downtown to Market street. We took a walk around the ballpark, where Bonds reigns supreme. 700 big ones for that guy, wow. We had a little bite to eat and cruised back out to the airport to continue the trip down the coast to Los Ang-uh-lees.

Fuck LA. Let’s just get that one clear. But, being purists, and honoring Route 66’s history, we have to be down here to start the trip outta Santa Monica.

So we cruised down the 5, right into Los Angeles, took a ride down the Sunset Strip over to the 405, then drove like bats out of hell all the way down to San Clemente, at the base of Orange County.

“Too many bodies down here. Jeez.” is what dad had to say concerning godamn motherfucking Southern California.

We made it to Rose’s pad and promptly hit the sack.

Dad’s on board now. There is strength in numbers. And man, we are strong.