Regarding these pages: We can see a a faint glimmer of light. Just a dull shimmer, no larger than a “Nail from Gary’s paw.” It’s there alright. Way, way, way down at the end of that tunnel.

“Hope” is another issue. We used to “hope” we’d get done in a timely fashion. Well shit-the-bed if that ain’t a pipe dream. All hope is lost.

But at least, above all else, I got outta the house long enough to get a warm meal with Faz. At least.

Had to “lie my way outta the joint,” of course. I gave Baker the option of “choosing the lie he was most comfortable with.”

01. “I have to go pay some bills.”
02. “Nakamoto has a disc with some files I need. I gotta go grab it.”
03. “I have to run to the bank.”
04. “I have an appointment with my therapist.” (We don’t have a therapist.)

Or just sneak out the front door, when no one is looking. That one works sometimes.

Faz and I were on the hunt. After realizing “Gravy” was a lost cause, we tried the “Tin Shed.” 13 fuckin’ tables ahead of us. Then we walked up to another joint, only to be put off by the happy, lively, LARGE crowd of fucks waiting for their tables. Horseshit. Back into the car, and outta that neighborhood. Down to the “Doug Fir” for a the same “Tosis” meal (As in, “Halitosis.”) we coulda had hours before.

Portland is a bitch when it comes to weekend breakfast dynamics.