why, it sure is late...

real late.

zero dark-thirty.

4am, sun rise.

clem, rooster-type -- crowed like a champ.

ellroy, pooch-type -- growled back.

now it is quiet. little fan oscillating, just humming.

smoke gathers @ the ceiling.

a bank of fog rolls in off the water.

thick fog.

heavy, moist.

and you can hear the tankers offload their goods.

sometimes a big ole container falls.

BOOM!

i can hear that too.

pin it on some longshoreman.

midnight hotbox on the docks.

can't blame 'em -- they work their asses off.

get smooshed;

slashed;

lumbar hurting and it's time to drive a UTR.

but now it is quiet.

reminds me of the road; clammed up and silent.

doing everything you can to keep awake along those long expanses.

asphalt and a yellow line.

especially @ dark -- it can get interesting.

nodding off all by your lonesome.

pull off and walk into the chaparral -- step into the wild.

keep your eyes peeled for diamondbacks and mojave greens

mojave greens are the worst.

crotalus scutulatus

-- born without rattles and warnings.

and the camps which dot these large expanses.

forget the name, but they're all the same. real cheap and nobody bothers you.

-- my kinda place.

gotta find a spot in the back.

spot where me and Ellroy can do our business.

me: write.

ellroy: dig.

in the back, where it's quiet.

btw, found these great pix @ san pedro daily photo.