Last weekend, Melle and I rode up to San Francisco (well, Oakland, really) in a white pony for less than 48 hours. In that time, I drank. A lot. Played some tracks. Talked up Writers with Drinks. And a bad-ass chick. Then attended Writers with Drinks and met some all new bad-ass chicks.  Ran into Doc. Had a tarot card reading. Drank  some more. Played Scrabble with my peoples in Alameda. Ate Korean with the same peoples in Jack London Square. Lost my phone.

Felt alive.

The ties and tugs get ever stronger with each visit.

My tuning fork is decidedly pointed north.