Mom and dad drove me to the airport, to some apprehension. Don’t like flying all that much anymore, which always has me “on edge.”

Caught a quick flight down to Detroit, toiled around for an hour and a half, then caught a big one over to Amsterdam. Seven-and-a-half hour flight. Long way. The plane did have an amazing “personal movie unit” in each seat, with a good selection. I watched, “Crash,” “Independence Day” and “Some Movie about the Baja 1000” race on Mexico’s Baja Peninsula.

“Crash” was complete shit. A comment on the state of racial stereotyping, but of course, completely over dramatized and just sorta “over-acted” with these trumped up reactions and slang. People just don’t act/talk like that. Fuck Hollywood, and while we are at it, fuck Los Angeles. “Independence Day” was a good time-killer, but, that’s about it.

Landed in Amsterdam, after a smooth, long flight, and got to thinking about Anne Frank and weed smoke and that red light district and windmills and stuff. (I’ll be back.) Schiphol airport could haven’t been any bigger, as, I think I may have set a record as far as, “longest distance between any two connections” is concerned. Phew. Everyone spoke great English, making the passport stamping and security screening go really smooth.

Then I caught a quick flight down to Milan. Completely cramped, the whole way. No thanks to the euro who had his sleeping head on my shoulder the whole way down there. No thanks, at all. Nice breath, man.

Martino “Crazy Legs” Fumagalli picked me up. We had to drive across town to get George “Pagosa” Kleckner. We grabbed George and headed north to Colico.

I forgot. These fuckers drive like animals. It escaped me. It’s a wonder you don’t see more cars burning on the side of the road, with paramedics fumbling around. There’s just this sort of respect for “whover is going the fastest” and people just sorta “get outta the way for ya” as you race up, give a quick beep, and race by. Martino read a magazine at 100mph. I slept and prayed for a quick death, if the moment arose.

We spent the rest of the day “setting up shop” and fighting the jet lag to the best of our abilities.

It got the best of us. Always does.

065. “Mrs. Fumagalli, mother to Martino.”
066. “My view from my room.”
067. “Wrastle that jet lag, I did.”