Ben In LA
Latest Update: August 2, 2004
22:11 MT Time Sunday the 1st of August. The bar of the Wise River Café
Shoots, I forgot to set my clock ahead to Mountain Time so I missed dinner. Got in here at 10:00 but I thought it was nine and the kitchen was closed. So I had some Trail Mix, but it wasn’t a substitute for a big steak. I am wearing a Troutfitters cap with my hair tucked up under it so people don’t look at me quite as funny. I just gave some Strange Bedfellows stickers to a guy who said he was a political consultant in DC. He didn’t laugh as he read them. Oh well. He did just thank me for them though.
He works for the Democrats, so he liked the Bush/Cheney one: Let them do for America what they did to Baghdad.
I was in Missoula this morning and woke up stiff and sore, probably from drinking beers and eating a hamburger last night. I went to an old-time Missoula bar and watched TV and read my book and had a decent cheeseburger and a couple of beers. People looked at me funny because of the hair I guess. I am reading a book about the Exxon Valdez and it’s pretty good. I now understand why the whole catastrophe happened: People are idiots. What a cluster fuck that was, from Hazelwood getting drunk and leaving the bridge in the middle of a very sketchy maneuver, to the whole lack of preparedness for the cleanup on the part of Exxon and Alyeska and the State of Alaska and the Feds. What a mess.
People should have gone to prison for that one.
I’m surprised no one got bombed or shot.
So in Missoula I fell asleep in the parking lot of Kinkos reading that Exxon Valdez book and listening to the midnight rebroadcast of the Giants’ game. They beat the Cardinals 8-7, and scored all 8 in the first inning. Must have been a good game but I was too tired to listen to it. I do remember a bit of Saturday night rowdiness around Missoula as I was falling to sleep: Hodads in hot cars racing around and some sirens.
Woke up stiff and sore, as I said and hit the road. I was tempted to drive down the Bitterroot Valley and get to the Big Hole that way, but instead I thought I would go by way of Anaconda. So I got onto the 90 East and then stopped for breakfast at Drummond, where the turnoff toward Anaconda is. Steak and eggs again, and this time the waitress didn’t really smile at me. There was a guy having breakfast with his mom, who was wearing t-shirts that suggested he was in the oil bidness in Alaska. The back of his shirt said: “We’re good in town, but better in the bush.” Wonder what his elderly mom thought about that.
I thought that was a little funny as I was reading the Exxon Valdez book, but when I asked him he said he had a friend who was in the oil bidness there, and that was that.
And then I drove basically south, through some nice, empty country and just saw another part of Montana I hadn’t seen before. I was listening to NPR on the radio and they did a little thing on The Manchurian Candidate I had missed while driving toward Spokane.
They also played a lot of music by Fats Waller, which was nice. I stopped by Georgetown Lake thinking I might go for a paddle and fish and I was tempted, but I drove on. I fished one spot that had a lot of little rises and was tempted to paddle out to a little reed reef, but there were a lot of people around on a Sunday and I didn’t want to make a California spectacle of myself.
Anaconda is a mining town with a big copper smelter on the edge of it. I stopped at the Dairy Queen and had a Dilly Bar because their power was out and I couldn’t get a chocolate dip. I got $20 worth of gas at Town Pump and pushed on. I took a detour to Lost Creek State Park thinking there might be some fishing. It was about an 8-mile detour through deserty country. On the way in I drove through a hatch of grasshoppers which was promising. But Lost Creek was too small and all I accomplished was to use my jumper cables to help jumpstart a guy who was missing a leg and had a huge scar on his back. Jumpstart his van, I mean. Not the guy. Although he looked like he needed it more than a little bit.
He asked if I had any dope. I thought, “Why do you think they call it dope?”
And then I drove on.
The road I wanted was Mine Creek Road or something like that and it was a right turn just past all the tailings from the copper smelter. This was a beautiful drive, just another great little piece of Montana with perfect ranches and tall grass and fat cattle and trout streams everywhere. It was about a 30 mile drive and at some point I stopped to fish California Creek. As I was fishing a big thunderhead moved in and there was rain and lightning and wind and I think God was telling me to get a fishing license. I was casting over a barbed-wire fence into a creek that looked like it had been fouled by cattle. I got one little bite, as I did on Lost Creek.
So I pushed on and hit the highway that runs along the Big Hole River at a spot that looked familiar. The weather was blustery so I drove into Wise River and stopped at Troutfitters, a place Mike Locatelli and Richard Metiver introduced me to. The sign said closed but I saw a face in the window and when I walked up and in he remembered me and said, “How is your cat?”
It was Frank Stanchfield, the owner of the joint. I told him the sad story about Ike and also that Mike Locatelli said hello, and that Mike’s left arm wasn’t working too well anymore.
Mike and Ike.
There was a big guy sitting and talking to Frank and he turned out to be a pretty interesting cat. He had surfed Malibu in the 50s and 60s and scored a winning touchdown for USC during a Rose Bowl and he had flown for the Navy in Vietnam and had three planes shot out from under him, and crashed another onto the deck of a carrier.
He had a lot of stories and I had some knowledge about such things from being on the Independence that one time and so we talked for quite a while. This guy had punched out three times-once in Laos, once in Point Mugu- and he was also the pilot of a very famous crash in which his F-8 hit the stern of the ship, lost its landing gear, skidded across the deck and he punched out at the last minute. He was found 70 miles behind the carrier, because someone watching the tape barely noticed that he had punched out at the last second. He also had been shot down over Laos but was never captured.
I lamely asked, “Did you shoot anyone?” And he looked stricked before nodding “yes.”
He could have been a bullshitter, but he was the real deal. An interesting guy driving a huge big rig taking a concrete dock somewhere. He knew all about Highway 17 and Santa Cruz and Los Angeles. I asked him about biodiesel in Salinas and he said if there was a steady
HEY BUDDY IM GONNA SHUT HER DOWN 21:34
I got the boot by Chester at 22:34 local time and now I am camped near Troutfitters. I am listening to Runaround Sue on the radio but I should look for NPR.
Where was I? I was talking to the trucker guy who really was an interesting chappie. He said he knew Mike Doyle and Hobie Alter and a lot of that crew and was pretty knowledgeable about Makaha and the Lurline and Malibu. I think we started talking because I said I liked Malibu and he said it was better 20 years ago.
We talked about Jane Fonda. He said all Navy Pilots were grounded for three days when she was in Hanoi because the Navy knew some hotdogs would try to get her. He claimed to have bombed a French freighter in Haiphong Harbor and I believe him. This guy was not a bullshitter.
I talked about my experience on the Independence and mentioned the infamous Forrestal incident in which a missile misfired, hit a line of planes and started a huge inferno that almost sunk the carrier. This guy was in his plane on the deck of the Forrestal when that happened and knew the whole story.
John McCain was in the plane that got hit and there is film of him exiting his cockpit in a big hurry, running to the nose of his plane, doing a tightrope walk along the radar pod then dropping to the deck and running like hell. This guy talked about one of the deckies grabbing McCain and dragging him to safety and then this guys and three other pilots grabbed the deckie and McCain and dragged everyone to safety.
We talked about a lot of things and I have found I am pretty fluent at talking Right Wing Redneck when I want. I told the famous story about Jane Fonda being refused service at Sir Scott’s Oasis Club in Manhattan, Montana and he thought that was pretty funny.
So we talked for quite a while as weather passed over, and I showed him all the Strange Bedfellows bumper stickers. He liked the Ashcroft/Rumsfeld sticker and was looking forward to putting it on his big-rig to piss off the “liberals in Minnesota” he was driving for.
I went into Wise River and bought a two-day license for $24 instead of a yearly license for $60. Have to economize. The girl there was nice and said she was going to Detroit for her vacation. I told her about surfing with Adam Sandler. She thought that was pretty cool.
I went to the Wise River Market and got a drink and then bought some lemonade from some local girls who didn’t look like they were doing much business. I can’t pass a lemonade stand anymore. I am too full of the milk of human kindness.
After that I went back to Troutfitters in time to see the trucker drive off. He was heading for Spokane by tonight, and that was going to be a long drive. He was a nice guy traveling with his dog, and that made me miss Ike.
After he left, Frank Stanchfield also told me the guy had scored a winning touchdown at the Rose Bowl for USC. That is an interesting guy. Apparently he has a lot of money and doesn’t have to work, but I think he is a road warrior and likes to work. His name was John Modlin.
I asked if he had a nickname during the Malibu days and he said it was “Wimpy.”
There was a guy at Troutfitters showing off his fish photos on a G4 laptop so I showed off my famous Brown Trout photo.
[Can’t Find My Way Home by Blind Faith is on the radio right now. Sounds nice. Now they are playing In the Year 2525 by Zagger and Evans. They are looking back on 1969]
After that I went fishing. I drove west along the Big Hole and flogged all the holes that were familiar from before. I threw dries and Copper Johns and nothing worked. I guess the highlight of the evening’s fishing was spooking a River Otter off the bank. He was a big critter and maybe spooked me more than I spooked him. He made a big angry splash about halfway across, stopped for a while, looked at me and then came back across.
I was thinking about all the oil-drowned sea otters in the wake of the Exxon Valdez spill, and that made me sad.
Then I came back to Wise River looking for dinner. I was too late and got some Trail Mix and a beer from the Wise River Café.
This Zagger and Evans song is reminding me of driving across country as a kid with my parents. I liked my parents. I had a birthday party on the North Platte River. I liked being a kid. Oh well.
What else? As I was fishing California Creek the radio was looking back on 1972 and they played a song by Pink Floyd that precedes the big twister when Dark Side of the Moon is played in conjunction with Wizard of Oz. That was appropriate, I thought, as a storm was brewing over head. Then after that they played “Time” by Strawberry Alarm Clock, because it was time to get moving.
That road was beautiful though. Just another spectacular slice of Montana. Some really nice ranches.
Now it is 11:05 local time: Don’t You Want Me is on the radio and I am tired. I caught no fish today and got bit to pieces by mosquitoes and met a war hero and saw a River Otter and I finally got a fishing license.
Frank Stanchfield also told me that the Sacajawea Hotel is under new management and that Mark Sanderson isn’t there anymore. He runs a restaurant in Butte called After Five.
I wonder if Brandy Moses is there and I wonder if the new management will flow me a free steak dinner. Hope so.
Time to hit the hay. And read the book a little bit.
13:40 MT Monday the Second of August Schwab Tires in Butte, Montana
Butte. Shit, I’m back in Butte. I am in Butte to get new tires on the van, which I should have done a long time ago, so I can drive all the way to Wisconsin to pick up my little brother who may be even more hapless than me. He is driving across from Boston to Washington with his two boys and the front axle broke in Portage, Wisconsin. He is stuck but I am on about that same latitude so I am going to go get him, maybe. But I am going to need some tires. No more screwing around.
I am in Butte and it is a gray day which does not make this depressing little copper town any happier. Butte is about the only thing about Montana that I don’t like. Butte and whitefish. Not the town, the fish. Today I fished the Big Hole River and caught two big whitefish. I flogged an era called the East Bank Recreation Area where there was a caddis hatch going on. The water was bubbling with rising fish but it took me awhile to figure out which fly to use. After about two hours of frustration and tying flies, I finally hooked a fish, but it was a yucky whitefish. I don’t like whitefish. They are trout wannabes that are closer to bass or lampreys. They rise like trout and fight like trout but they are just greasy mountain fish with an ugly mouth.
They are the whitetrash or river fish.
I call them “mulletheads.”
I don’t like catching them. A lot of people kill the whitefish they catch but I am too full of the milk of human kindness so I always let them go, although I did break a fly off in the mouth of one. I felt bad because that was the fly that was working-a caddis with red in it.
And I felt bad for the mullethead, too. Hopefully he will shake it loose.
Then I got another whitefish and then it started raining so I gave up. I drove up to the Sportsmen’s Corner but on the way in the park guy told me my left rear tire was low. He was right, so I hit it with a Fix A Flat and drove back to troutfitters. That was not the tire I was expecting to go bad. Frank Stanchfield’s son filled the tire with their air compressor and I gave up on the Big Hole and decided to head for Butte. The plan was to spend as little of my remaining $250 as possible on tires and hopefully have enough to get me home, or at least to the nearest Bank of the West. But in Wise River I checked my messages and got a message from Michael saying they were stuck in Wisconsin. I called him and he said he had a broken axle so I said I would see about going to get him. I called mom and pops and said I would have to have them send some money Western Union because Bank of the West never got me an ATM card. Mom flipped out of course but she did send $500. I just picked it up on Harrison Street in Butte and they charged me $17.50, which I might just have to complain about to Western Union or the Better Business Bureau. But I was too rushed to hassle it then.
Now I am at Schwab’s tires and they are going to put on three new tires for $260. That will leave me with about $400 to get to Wisconsin, but I have no idea how far that is from here.
I might ask the Schwab’s people to let me log on so I can see if I have any money in my account, and how far it is to Wisconsin. But something tells me they are going to look at me funny and say no. There are no Kinkos in Butte. This is a dying town and it is sad.
So what else? Not a cheery story right now. I was going to go home and get back to work and get back into my work-all-morning, surf-in-the-afternoon routine which maybe I shouldn’t have left. But I can try to do this rescue mission and we’ll see what happens.
I might try to call Michael right now with what is left of the phone card I bought in Wise River. What a mess. I am guilty right now for gambling away money I should have spent on tires. Just plan stupid is all, but beyond that I think it will be okay.
I have money waiting for me in my account, I think, but I can’t even check on that.
Michael’s thing is just the latest in a chain of disasters. He went to Java with Leli but her purse was stolen before they left and then when they got there Leli got sick and nearly died because of incompetent medical treatment: They gave her the wrong bloodtype, among other things.
Michael left his house in care of a management company who didn’t pay his mortgage, so he almost lost his house.
Now they are back and just should have stayed in Massachusetts and got to work. But I took Leli to Washington after dropping Michael off at Oakland Airport. He flew to Massachusetts and picked up his kids to bring them across country to grandma’s.
In a bad vehicle, with no money.
I knew he shouldn’t have attempted to drive across country, but there it is.
Now he is stuck in Portage, Wisconsin.
So now it is 13:51 California time and I am in a Schwab’s Tire place waiting to get tires. Then I will head east and keep driving, stopping at the Sacajawea to see if Brandy Moses is there.
I asked to use their phone line to dial up AOL but they said it wouldn’t work. Then I tried to call using the phone card but it is out of time. I need to tell the tire guys to get rid of the current spare and put the best remaining tire on there.
Now I am going to go find a pay phone.
Hey, there is a casino across the street!!!!!!
18:00 Local Time Monday the 2 of August, 2004 Kinkos in Bozeman
Two huge thunderclaps just rocked Bozeman and it is raining outside. I am safe and somewhat sane inside the Kinkos, taking care of business. When I got here there were 59 emails waiting, some of them junk, some of them angry.
This was from brother Dan, whom I owe about $6000, I think.
Ben,
Try to comprehend that some folks from whom you've borrowed significant
amounts of money for unreasonably long periods of time might be less than
amused to read your musings about $6000 panel trucks, endless road-trips,
casino visits and winning the lottery. They might start to develop the
opinion, in spite of their well-wishes and hopes for you due to your talent
with words, or being part of your immediate family, or for whatever reason:
* That you truly are a dead-beat, or at the very least, a person of
perplexing priorities and principles;
* That you lump and dump all your lenders (personal and corporate)
into the same "sucker's bucket";
* That in some strange and twisted way you perceive that The Universe
owes you, so that anyone in The Universe foolish enough to aid you should
understand that no good deed goes unpunished;
* That you have no intention of even attempting to return their funds,
ever.
Can you grasp that these folks might find it difficult to continue to greet
you with the open arms, hearts and pocketbooks you seem to feel you
inherently deserve.
Go ahead and flame if you wish, but do consider this point of view.
-Dan
I answered him. Some of you got that response. I hate being poor and I hate borrowing money and if people would just pay me what I think I am worth, none of this would be a problem.
But no one does. If I got 50 cents a word for everything I did, I would have a life and no one would owe me anything. But only SURFER pays me that.
Oh well. I am in Bozeman because I remembered exactly where the Kinkos was in this town. I am like a bloodhound. I am here to see if just by accident the French or the Germans or the English or TransWorld Surf Business might have deposited some money in my bank account.
Still checking.
Let’s see, where did I leave off? I was at the tire place in Butte and heading for a casino across the street.
A cliffhanger of sorts, knowing my reputation with gambling. Montana casinos are lame though, just poker machines.
I went into the casino and looked at a lot of sad Buttians sitting around drinking beer in the middle of the day. Kind of reminded me of an Irish pub in a dying town.
I got $20 in quarters and made a bunch of calls.
Michael is stuck in Wisconsin and I agreed to go get him, but I still don’t know how far I am from Portage, Wisconsin. I think it is about 1300 miles.
I checked my voicemail and Winki said his friend Charleen’s parents want to use his apartment beginning in mid-August, so it looks like I am out of there.
I figured well if I am going to be on the road anyway, maybe I can pick up Michael and his boys, take them to Washington, go down to Santa Cruz, take care of business and then come back up to Washington and take them back to Wisconsin. I’ve got nothing better to do.
So I said that to Michael and also suggested the stop trying to live like Howard Hughes. Leli almost died in Java and now he is broke down in Wisconsin. He has a house in Massachusetts and I suggested the stay there and get down to business and then he hung up on me.
I mean I might be flaky but I keep it to myself for the most part, except for borrowing money all the time.
I went through both rolls of quarters calling here and there and everywhere and then went back across the street to check on the van. They were still working on it but it was done pretty quick. Cost me $250 but it was nice to finally have new tires and I felt like a shitheel for gambling some of that money away. Stupid, like a dipshit redneck mullethead. Like a whitefish. Dumb.
Some Buttian at the tire counter was explaining how his wife had cleaned out his bank account and left town. He was a sad sack and a walking country song, not that I’m much better.
But eventually the van was done and I paid $250 and when I looked inside the van for the spare, it wasn’t there. I asked the guy who worked on the van where the spare was and he said it was where it was supposed to be, under the van in the back.
I said, “Oh you put it where it’s supposed to be. That always confuses me.”
I should have tipped him but I drove off.
It felt good to be rolling on good tires. The speed limit is 70+ in Montana and I usually trundle along at 60, which pisses off some of the truck drivers who have to change lanes to pass me.
I went out of Butte and east, into familiar country. I went up over a pass in the Tobacco Root Mountains and drove directly under a thunderhead that was chucking vivid lightning bolts. Scared me a little bit. Can a moving vehicle be hit by lightning? Anyone?
I drove and drove and passed Cardswell, which is one campground I stayed with Ike on our trip up here. I missed him then although I remember him disappearing on me for half a day there. I don’t miss that.
The radio was playing oldies tunes from the 60s and that was nice. The weather was crummy but clear up ahead and that was also nice. I eventually came to Three Forks, where I was hoping to find Brandy Moses behind the bar at the Sacajawea Hotel. I pulled up, tucked my hair up under my hat and went in to say howdy. Turns out Brandy left a year ago. She has a Degree in Biology from Stanford and someone in Helena was putting her and her thesis to work. So that was cool, but I did want to say hello.
I was hoping the Headwaters Restaurant was open but it too was closed, so I drove out of Three Forks and headed for Bozeman.
I stopped in Manhattan to make phone calls. I called Mike and talked about going to get him, then insulted him when I suggested he stop hopping around like Howard Hughes. He hung up on me.
And then I drove on and now I am in Bozeman. There was mostly good news in the email. There is an interview with William Asher-the director of the Beach Blanket Movies-that I found online and would like to use in the book. I contacted Terry Dufoe, who published the interview, asking what he would require for us to use it.
TheBenM@aol.com wrote:
Terry Dufoe
Dufoenet
July 31, 2004
Terry
I am writing a book on the effect of surfing culture on popular culture for Voyageur Press in Minnesota. I found your interview with William Asher a few years ago while I was putting together a proposal for a similar book, called Blue Screen, which was never published.
Now I have a good home for your interview and I wonder what you would require for me to run it in this book? I don't know that they will let me do all 5000 words, but I like it at that length.
Realize I am not getting paid much for this, and I don't know what they will be willing to pay. But I can promise it a good home.
Thanks.
Ben Marcus
310-270-7500 He responded with this email, which sounds expensive.
Ben Marcus
August 1st, 2004
Dear Mr. Marcus,
Long time no talk! I'm glad to hear that you're now established with a publisher and will be releasing a similar themed book to "Blue Screen" which you so avidly labored for. I'm also glad to hear you're still interested in my Asher interview. I must say that I am proud of that piece as it is a rather rare interview since (as I'm sure you saw) Mr. Asher is basically impossible to contact these days. To see the interview (in it's entirety if possible, or if not in some great length) published, perhaps as a chapter of it's own, in a book would be very gratifying. I myself have been considering shopping around a book of my interviews for publication, with the Asher piece being one of the star highlights.
However, if you're interested in the piece, I'm sure that negotiations could take place whereas I would agree to sell the interview to your book for publication instead of including it in any book I may pursue in the future. Instead of me making an 'offer' of what I would be willing to accept for the use of the piece, I would prefer if you spoke with your publisher (hopefully getting them to understand the gravity of how rare the interview is) and have them make me an offer first. Then once they've made an offer, I can decide if I want to accept or deny that.. or perhaps we could negotiate to a compromise. Far beyond just putting my past work up on the internet, I write primarily for many national magazines and have been published hundreds of times.. so I know what writers for national magazines make on a regular basis. Considering not only the fact that this would be for a book and not a monthly magazine, but also knowing how rare an interview with Mr. Asher is to obtain, and how pertinent this interview would be considering his involvement in SO much pop culture history from "I Love Lucy", "Bewitched" (which would be of special interest considering the movie remake is on the brink), "Gidget", and "The Flying Nun" to of course the "Beach Party"films and more, I would need and expect the publisher to make an offer of more money than I make for simply submitting the same interview to run in a magazine for a month. This should be expected because obviously once I settle on an amount to relinquish the interview to your book, it is then no longer usable by me for publication anywhere.
I understand that you personally are not making a lot of money off of this project, which is why you should approach your publisher about making me an offer. I would not ask or expect for the offer / funds to come from you since it is the publisher who would be procuring the interview for the book. Also I wanted to mention, in addition to whatever monetary agreement we come to, I would require to have full line credit in the book for the interview (I know this seems like a 'no duh' requirement but I've had my worked credited to others before) and I would require that a copy of the finished book be sent to me when it's ready to hit stores.
I would love to see the Asher interview, especially in it's entirety, find a home in your book! BTW, I wanted to mention that I also have some rare and candid shots that could be provided to accompany the article. Among these are not only some photos I took myself of Asher at his home during our interview, but I also have in my possession some rare vintage candid photos of Bill Asher on the set of some of the TV shows he worked on. These are behind the scenes shots and thus far are unseen. Unfortunately, I don't have any behind the scenes photos from the "Beach Party" films though. All graphics could be provided in the form of a photo CD and mailed to you upon making an agreement on the interview being in your book.
I look forward to hearing from you soon once you get a chance to go over all this with your publisher. I very much look forward to working with you and hope that my interview with Asher can find a permanent home in your book.
Thanks,
Terry L. DuFoe
I sent that on to the publisher in Minnesota and wished him well.
So now I am going to drive to Livingston and wait for a decision. If Michael wants me to pick him up in Wisconsin I will charge it, or if he is going to be a pinhead I will head back to Santa Cruz by way of the Paradise Valley and Yellowstone. I don’t relish driving 1300 miles to Wisconsin and then another 2300 back to Washington, but family is family and all that.
He should never have attempted that trip, I knew something would happen.
Lately Michael has been like Bozeman is now: Under a black stormcloud.
But look who is talking.
Here is a Yahoo map from Bozeman, Wisconsin to Portage, Wisconsin:
Directions Show Turn by Turn Maps
1. Starting in BOZEMAN, MT on N TRACY AVE - go 0.1 mi
2. Turn on E MAIN ST - go 1.2 mi
3. Take I-90 EAST/US-191 NORTH towards BILLINGS - go 146.4 mi
4. Take the I-90 EAST exit towards SHERIDAN, exit #456 - go 1037.4 mi
5. Continue on I-90 EAST/I-94 EAST - go 60.4 mi
6. Take the WI-33 exit towards BARABOO/PORTAGE, exit #106 - go 0.1 mi
7. Bear on ramp - go 0.1 mi
8. Turn on WI-33 - go 4.0 mi
9. Arrive at the center of PORTAGE, WI
I really don’t think I am the bad guy in all of this. I am up here because I brought Leli up here. I did it in two days, from Oakland to Sequim, without a hitch. And then I cleaned all my stuff from my mom’s garage and got the hell out of everyone’s hair.
And now I am offering drive 1300 fucking miles to go get Michael and his kids.
Is that such a bad guy? I am even nice to whitefish. And whitefish suck.
I if am guilty of anything it is that I gamble a little too much and don’t walk away when I am ahead.
And that people just refuse to pay me on time.
Money issues, is what I guess you would call it.
Please forgive me.
On to Livingston-the city the 21st Century forgot.
It is now 18:56 California time. Light outside. The storm has passed. Bozeman, anyway.
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