September 18, 2004
Big monsoon blew in around 5:30 tonight. Heavy winds. Finally got some rain at about 6:15. Nice and cool out at dusk. Unfortunately got a leak in my studio. Put a waste paper basket over the drip. Sounds like a water balloon hitting every five seconds.

Took Peaches to the vet this morning. They beat me up pretty good about not bringing her in since 2001. Does she have her shots? (No, that was $117), does she have her new license? (Is there a driver’s test? I think she’d pass.), does she have a tracking electrode between her shoulder blades? (Holy guacamole! Did George Orwell take over the vet biz while I was on deadline?). What’s next? E-mail in their stools? (Yes, they sent home a stool sample gizmo, but with no html I can find, so far).

Took Kathy down to Bell Ford (no relation) at about 11 to pick up her car. Freeway hell. No southbound onramp at I-17 (closed, no warning), ended up going north to Deer Valley, then south, snaking along 27th Avenue with a ton of other people. Added another 20 minutes to the trip. Stopped at Aaron Brothers on the way home and bought some more watercolor board, gouache paints, mixing dish and brush ($87, TW account). Came home and worked on several paintings. One of the Northfield robbers riding out of town under a storm cloud. Also worked on a Mickey Free image. I think we ware going to post that one real soon, if not today.

Swam 10 passes, took a nap, went back at it and worked until around five. Had some red mole that Brad Radina made. Quite good. Opened a bottle of Coppola cabernet wine (yes, from the film director Francis Ford’s winery. Quite dry and good). Had two glasses, sat out on the patio and enjoyed the rain.

Tomcat is coming down tonight from Flag. They’ve been at the Grand Canyon and are supposed to roll in at about nine. I got T’s Strokes poster framed in Scottsdale and they’re supposed to deliver it in the morning so he can take it back up the hill.

Mr. Unstoppable came into my office earlier this week and was limping. When I asked Dave Daiss why, he told me one of his horses kicked him in the shin and he had to go to the hospital for stitches. I really felt sorry for him. First cancer, now this. I asked him why the horse kicked him and Dave said, “Because I kicked him first!” I both laughed. Dave is such a kid.

“Every writer is a frustrated actor who recites his lines in the hidden auditorium of his skull.”
—Rod Serling>