
You can tell this is a “dangerous area” and that “this is not a trail” by the five million bootprints going around the warning sign.
When I load photos of Valley of Fire into programs like Lightroom, they automatically crank the color down 15 notches because the programmers at Adobe in Seattle canʼt conceive of a place that isnʼt as humid and grey as where they live.
Seeing a cactus skeleton is a good way to understand how much water they store.
The large black things are hare droppings. The tiny black dots that cover everything is called cryptobiotic soil: “cyanobacteria that cement the soil together. It provides nutrients for plants and seeds, and increases the soil topography which allows greater moisture absorption. This crust is only a few millimeters thick and is easily destroyed when walked on. Recovery can take between 7 and 250 years. Please donʼt walk on it.”
I took the Hasselblad out to the Valley of Fire today. My main lens is just about toast because so much sand gets into it on these trips.
I have written down my memories of using a TRS-80 Model 100 as a journalist.
To keep it kosher, I wrote it on my TRS-80 Model 100.
Iʼm glad Iʼm off tomorrow. I donʼt think you can even buy snow tires in this town.
Not only do kids these days not know how to rock on down to Electric Avenue, they’re clueless about taking it higher.
In the street this afternoon:
Neighbor: Hi, Wayne!
Me: Hey, Peter. Been quiet around your place lately.
Peter: Yeah, we were visiting my mom.
Me: Yeah, Annie told me.
Peter: Isnʼt Annie your cat?
Me: Yeah.
Peter: You talk to your cat?
Me: No, that would be crazy. She talks to me.
Peter: …long pause… Well, I gotta go check on the kidsʼ homework now. See you later!
Darcie says things like this are why his family doesnʼt come to our door for trick-or-treat.
Kids these days don’t understand that the rhythm is going to get them. The rhythm is going to get them. The rhythm is going to get them. Tonight.
I went to the store tonight to buy a shirt. Hereʼs what happened at the register:
Lady: Can I have your phone number?
Me: 202-456-1414
Lady: …punches number into register… Are you George?
Me: Sure, why not.
Lady: Is your name “George?”
Me: I donʼt give out my phone number. Thatʼs the number for the White House switchboard.
Lady: It says youʼre George Bush.
Me: Iʼm OK with that.
Lady: …sigh…
I guess someone else is running the same gag.
Sometimes I think I should sell my house.
I wonder what the landlady would think of that.
When I think of all the money Iʼve spent at Starbucks over the last quarter century, I feel like Howard Schultz owes me an ambassadorship or something.
I just found a USB memory stick in the dryer.
This is why old computers were better. Nobody ever accidentally left a floppy disk in their pants pocket.
Is it wrong that when I order something online, I choose the complimentary gift wrapping and include a nice note to myself?
Yes, reusing plastic shopping bags is one way to save on airline baggage fees when visiting Las Vegas.
But in case your oversized TJMaxx carrier blows out a block from your hotel, disgorging all of your worldly possessions onto sidewalk, you might want to have a Plan B.
This is what happens when a homeless guy watches too much Marie Kondo on Netflix.
At least he has the sense to keep the waffle iron.
Iʼm fascinated that Gladys Knight looks like she might just outlive us all.
I mostly stopped shopping at Target a while ago because it hardly ever has anything in stock.
I tried again today. No change.
It canʼt even stock the most basic of basics: eggs, sugar, flour, and cooking oil.
I think I’ve figured out why three-year-olds in Target shriek like it’s the worst thing thatʼs ever happen to them.
It’s because they’re three years old, and going to Target probably is the worst thing that’s ever happened to them so far.