November 8, 1995 (#7) (and before ...)

Well, I'm surprised you even stopped by to read this. I have neglected everything, even you my tiny wallabies, in the interest of my failing mental health. Needless to say, life in the trailer has taken a turn for the worse.

I would, at this point, like to make an example of my girls back on the coast, and remind them that life is a bit slower in the desert and to get off my back about the diary entries. My life is not a weekly episode of Dragnet. It evolves on its own schedule. Besides, my girls are in for a rude awakening in a few paragraphs. Better start cleaning ladies ...

I really don't know where to start. Perhaps when the trailer park lynch mob tapped at my door. They were looking for my dear sweet gentle Lance. I tried to stop them, but they made accusations and Lancelot, who does not like being accused, flew into a furry flurry (I just had to say that). That put the mob off for the time being, but I knew they meant to return.

At this point, you overactive 'possums, my plan began it's slow journey down the birth canal. I had to leave. LEAVE, one might ask, how could I leave my friends, the weather, the trailer. Well, it really seemed the only solution. Lance would never get a fair hearing from those brutes at trailer park security, and besides, who were his peers? The rag tag collection of other non-human companions in that forsaken place hardly had enough brains between them for a soufflé, much less cooperative problem solving. I ran.

In the next few weeks or so, I took only as much time as necessary to surreptiously get a resilient manicure (8 coats! who knew when I would ever see another orange stick) and a stylish but practical new hairdo of the traveling variety not to mention, pack up my SGI (I'm mad about indigo, truly), and leash up Lance (the real victim in this sordid mess) and M. Abattoir. I also had to redecorate the trailer for curb appeal as well as a ruse to put off the scent of the mob.

I backed my large white utility vehicle out of the park early this morning hitched up my trailer and with a quick pop of the clutch, I was off.

Lance kept low, Abattoir lower still and we slipped by security. After all, who would suspect that I would be leaving. They thought my life, my sole purpose for existence resided in their petty amusement. And I'm only starting to get angry about the whole affair.

Where to, you might ask my questioning koalas. Quien sabes? I hope to go west, east and up and down and see parts of this great land that I have never seen and probably shouldn't see. Of course, you will get full reports, however untimely (I hang my head in shame) of my progress. Wither I goest wilt thouest follow?

So after driving about 3 hours, I've exhausted myself and had to unlock Abattoir for a visit to Mrs. Murphy. A quick cocktail (virgin, of course, my horrified echidnae) and a bit of a munch for all of us weary voyagers. Lance sleeps in freedom for now, and Abattoir, well whatever.

I charge my lovely technicians with the somewhat surprising news that it would not be out of the question that I may return, MAY return. The desert, while lovely and peaceful for a time, left me with a ringing in my ears that perhaps only a firetruck at 3 am on the west side highway could cure. Yet, a return to "la grosse pomme", well the mere thought strikes terror in my veins. I hear that Mr. Klein simply owns the town and what with Mr. Jewel's latest, I just don't know. Perhaps L.A., Joe makes it all seem so desirable.

I still check my mail and my calling cards as often as I am able and appreciate all your support. Perhaps I shall unexpectedly show up on your door: weary but imminently attractive with a majestic dog and a well meaning manservant with a questionable accent.

My life is a never ending kaleidoscope of mystery, thank you for sharing it, I beg you.

Well, it's back to the road my wombats,
Let's all remember to do our situps and keep our marsupia tight.