HIS IS IT—my first bloggety blog-blog posty-post. So strap on your strap on, and I guess your seatbelt too. No tellin’ what kind of ride this may be.
I will say, though, I thought a long time about the content I wanted to create, and I decided on exploration, both backyard and world. They equally ignite my fire, but for now…let’s start with taking care of a request.
A few weekends ago, I was chatting with my friend Casey-Kacie-KC-Kacy, and she was like, “Why don’t you have any pictures in your book? I really wanted to see pictures of the places you were talking about, and you know—your seaweed beard.”
So Casey-Kacie-KC-Kacy and anyone else wondering the same thing, the reason I didn’t put pictures in the book is because I wanted readers to use their imaginations. Although I like pictures in books, I also enjoy letting my mental camera capture landscapes—hence the lack of pics.
I also left out photos, because I knew I’d have them here on my blob. Ha! Oh shit…blog. BLOG-G-G. But, I must say I like that finger slip. I think I’ll start calling it that—my blob.
Lastly, my seaweed beard is already posted on my website. Check it out to get turned on.
I’ll always have photos here on my blob, so please visit to see view snazzy destinations or my double chin. Today, we start with a photo of my travel totem that’s mentioned in PART I of Good Globe—my shimmery Saint Peter card, which I tuck away safely in my passport.
It was sold to me inside San Pedro prison in La Paz, Bolivia by a man (Jorge) who’d been busted for the biggest cocaine deal the feds had ever touched—so he claimed. He said he was arrested during an international take down performed by three countries working together—the United States, Bolivia, and Columbia. When he got busted, he’d gutted a 747 and filled it with nose candy—top to bottom, side-to-side, holy shit. He was gunned down in the jungle before taking flight.
I met him years later in San Pedro where he was living out the rest of his existence.
I believed his story then, and I believe it now. His reputation preceded him inside the prison. Plus, he lived very well in San Pedro, because no doubt he was still hustlin’ at the top of the cocaine game. Not to mention he had no reason to tell such a tale. His drug bragging might have gotten him some traction with other prisoners, but not with us—the tourists. He wasn’t trying to sell us cocaine. He was just there—chilling inside his nice apartment with his crew and his San Pedro cards.
As you see in the pic, Jorge signed the back of my card along with some other dudes that were in his room when I bought it. Later, Jack Black signed it too… or at least his doppelgänger did.
If you’re confused, just read PART I to get caught up. For your viewing pleasure, I’ve also thrown in some photos of the Salt Plains in Bolivia—a very magical chunk of the planet that you have to see to believe. I rate it no less than SPECTACULAR.
Enjoy. I’m tired of typing. Time to stare out a window for a few minutes and ponder why a toothbrush isn’t called a teethbrush.
Until next time homies—
“I’ll do your laundry, massage your soul. I’ll turn you over to the highway patrol.” – Beck