Woke up at 11 from a strange dream about being held prisoner and having to shoot somebody in the heart with a poison-injection gun. It was actually really terrifying, but at least it wasn’t a zombie dream this time. Or at least I don’t think it was.

Today my plan is to walk to the library while listening to Blonde on Blonde, find books about unorthodox US travel (my prime target is Dishwasher, about Pete Jordan, who made it a goal to wash dishes in all 50 states) and some comic books, and then come home and read them. Meeting Mallory at 7:30 for Zombieland (second viewing—it’s that good). Oh, and lots of coffee. That’s my day. The good ones have been flowing lately.

Making vague travel plans in my head. If I load myself with freelance work, I want to see if I can go on a two-week bus trip roughly every two months. A bit of an experiment.

Also, working on a new writing project. More on that soon.

Edit: went to the library, and paid a two-dollar fine on my account for a movie that I kept out late that I realized wasn’t even worth the late fee by the time I finally got around to watching it. Bummer. But now my account is cleared, so I nabbed the aforementioned Dishwasher book, plus the Achewood Great Outdoor Fight collection and a coupla other comics. Good haul today.

Today: up early to read Cometbus and Noah Van Sciver comics. Riding around in a car with Amanda when she gets off work. Zombie crawl at 6. Will I be a victim or a zombie? Or both? Then dollar tacos at Mezcal and EAOD’s last show. Pretty good, Saturday. Pretty good.

Also, last night was The Pogues at The Ogden. Highlights: Spider smashing a baking sheet against his head repeatedly and rhythmically—with surprisingly good results—during “Fiesta,” the last song in their double encore.

No band practice tomorrow because Stuart’s in Nebraska for a week. I have no idea what to do on a Sunday without two band practices.

The following was cut (by me, for length) from my first blog for The A.V. Club on the topic of the wonders of living on Colfax:

“Let me let you in a little dream of mine: I’ve always wanted to live in one of those charming apartments over a shopfront, maybe directly above, say, The Roslyn Grill. Every day I’d wake up, hungover, to the smell of hobo piss and grease from Great Wall, head downstairs—still in my cowboy PJs!—and have a drink with the quirky regulars at the Roslyn while the place is booming during its breakfast beer rush. After finishing my morning routine—can’t start the day without my newspaper, cup of coffee, and a heaping helping of crack rock—I’d cross the street on a red light against moving traffic, making sure to take my sweet time, and head in to work at the day labor office for some drunken, filthy conversation around the watercooler. My co-workers and I would loiter at McDonald’s on our lunch break, doing some healthy networking in the parking lot. All in a day’s work on Colfax Avenue!

Okay, to be fair, I don’t live right on Colfax. I live a half-block up Pearl, a stone’s throw from Tom’s Diner. Overlooking Colfax itself would be the final frontier. When I moved to Denver from the suburbs after high school, my mom half-warned and half-requested that I didn’t choose a place too close to the ‘Fax. A naïve and obedient teenager, I complied. At first. 6th and Pearl: a respectable neighborhood. Then way out at Colorado Boulevard and Alameda: she couldn’t have been happier about that location. But as time went on, financial restrictions dictated—as they so often do for low-income students in Denver—that I move to progressively cheaper neighborhoods. Next was a studio on 13th and Ogden. You could feel a strong bum-wind blowing down the street, but it was still relatively quiet. Finally, years later when all standards and expecations had been crushed out of me, I made the move: Colfax and Pearl. Right in the belly of the beast.

In all honesty, I love living this way. I’m not going to pretend that I’m impoverished or that I live in a real ghetto. Things aren’t that bad on Colfax. Many of the homeless folks are actually pretty friendly, like the man that slept three nights in a dark corner on my porch, after asking my permission. He just wanted to get out of the rain. And from where I live, it’s a 10-minute bike ride—at most—to any of the more upscale (read: gentrified) neighborhoods around the city. Things aren’t that bad. But they’re shitty enough that what I can say, completely truthfully, is that I don’t live in a bubble. I grew up in a whitewashed, suburban town, where everyone had a car, everyone had money, street crime was virtually nonexistent, and everyone always had enough to eat. That’s not the case in my neighborhood, and I prefer it. I see terrible things happen every day, but it’s a necessary reminder that I’m not above it all.”

Woke up hungry and extremely broke. Tried to ignore it for a while (watched this strange, great low-budget film called LOL), then decided to bike to Whole Foods to forage for samples. The results of my hunt: one sample-sized bag of Oogie’s popcorn and a ThinkFruit bar from April, some oriental rice snacks from Ashley (whom I was extremely pleased to run into), a slice of pluot as a sample, a little bit of an acai smoothie from Leah and a few fig bars and little cinnamon pecan cookies pilfered from the bulk section. Likely all I’ll eat today.

But I just remembered I have half a 40 of Bud Light in the fridge with my name on it, so things are looking up.

Feeling good about the band and the new songs and the video, despite our impending lack of a drummer. Feeling good about music as an art form in general. Feeling hopeful about adult life after my talk with Shelby. Feeling good and hopeful about the future of the human race, if Shelby’s any kind of an indication. Feeling good and hopeful about the future of television thanks to Party Down and Parks And Recreation. I am feeling great tonight.

Free wi-fi on a moving bus. Well, I’ll be goddamned. Hello, The Future.

I am on my way to Boston, and Yamori Kota is very good music to get me there. I’m doing the “get introspective whilst staring out the window of a bus and listening to sad ambient music” thing. It suits me well. The sloping green hills outside Middletown, Connecticut look like the wooded bluffs of the Congo, only with fewer gorillas being cut in half by lasers.

This feels like last year, except at least now I’m not homeless. I-91, we have spent some time together.

Drunk spelling bee. Made it to the third round this time (last year I missed “aberration,” somehow). The word that killed me tonight: scelerophibia. I spelled it with two Ls. Feel good about it, though. I’ll be back next year, coincidentally (B&C wedding), so I’ll give it a go again; maybe I’ll show up once every year in July and try to win the fifty bucks. Could be a fun tradition.

Trip has been non-stop kicks. Enjoying it very much. I really don’t miss Denver much right now.

In at 5:45am. No sleep on the plane. Regional rail (free, for some reason) into the city (but we met a nice fellow on the tracks who told us (Sarah Wells, me) that we couldn’t use a credit card on the train and if we didn’t have enough cash he’d cover us—so nice—that’s why this is the city of brotherly love), donuts and coffee at Dunkin’ (made me feel like I was in Boston again), and then picked up by Heather. Breakfast at—now I’m forgetting the name of the place. Incredible. Open-faced biscuit sandwich with veggie sausage, two fried eggs, gravy, and latkes with pear sauce. Philly has always had a good track record for food, in my book, and so far it’s holding to that standard.

Then back to where Heather’s house-sitting—gorgeous old brownstone-type; residing in the house is a gigantic Newfoundland, the biggest I’ve ever seen, drooling all over me—the thing probably weighs 150 lbs.—so, a too-brief nap on a toddler’s bed (surprisingly comfortable) and then up for a free show and live taping, Chairlift at WXPN, meet ‘n’ greet afterward and I tell them “Robert Laux says hello, I’m a friend, we went to school together” and they’re not as enthusiastic as I’d hoped about our mutual acquaintance. Then a beer, then back, leftovers, feeling so drained. Later: Courtney and Bob. Tomorrow: Jill on a bus from NYC.

Tired with every fiber of my body. When will I sleep?

As it turns out, if you want to read Cormac McCarthy’s The Road in a few sittings, sometimes late at night, sometimes in the middle of the afternoon with light streaming through windblown leaves outside, and you want to listen to something perfectly suited to the brutal/beautiful words on the pages, you need look no further than Do Make Say Think. I just finished the book while listening to Goodbye Enemy Airship The Landlord is Dead, and there’s really nothing better I could have chosen as a soundtrack. In fact, I listened to their entire discography while working through the book (and nothing else), five albums in five or so sittings. It’s an experience I’m glad I created for myself.

And that book fucked with my head a little bit.

(See, Cat, I do still write in here sometimes.)

Rearranged the bedroom today at The Attic to create a better “workflow.” This probably means I’m an adult now.

Decided today that I want Fleetwood Mac’s “Never Going Back Again” to be playing on repeat during my next personal crisis or emotional breakdown, like the time after Courtney left when I listened to “Tie Your Monster Down” for several hours straight while lying on the floor.

Holy fuck, I’m two episodes of LOST behind. That must be remedied immediately. Then, it’s gang-biking through Denver parks under a full moon with Leah et al. Hope to see ghosts ‘n’ witches.