Of course I caanot be expected to update my blog on a regular basis, what with the parties and the wine dinners and my appearance as a model in a drag queen fashion show.

Forgive me. I'll be back soon.

I've been going out too much lately. Too many of my dinners have been served on toothpicks or cocktail napkins. Too many nights have been filled with schmoozing instead of sleep. Too many of my drinks cost $15 each.

My business card case is empty, my place is a mess, and my cat treats me like a stranger.

Thank goodness this weekend is the Cracker/Camper Van Beethoven campout in Pioneertown.

First off, I love Pioneertown. It's a very genuine place. I feel settled there, like everything that's restless and fidgety inside me finally finds peace. It takes a weight off my shoulders, and I can breathe easier.

Last year, when the wildfires ripped through the town, I think my heart got a little bit scorched too. It was devastating. I would sit on my patio and watch the curtain of fire drape over the mountainside, and it felt like splinters were piercing my gut.

Thankfully, all the old Western movie sets were spared. They make up Mane Street, the heart of town.







Pioneertown also has this grand musical tradition. Pappy & Harriet's Pioneertown Palace takes their music almost as seriously as their chili -- which is pretty damn serious. Go to the bar on any random night and you could catch anyone from Jon Spencer Blues Explosion to some local goth country metal band. One night Robert Plant stopped by and played a Sunday night jam session.



The band Cracker recorded their "Kerosene Hat" album in Pioneertown's old movie sound stage, so they have a deep love for the place also.

They put on this annual campout where they play, along with a reunion of Camper Van Beethoven and some of their musical buddies. Ticket prices are low, the beer is cheap, and everybody is welcome to bootleg the show. Just bring a tent, and crash when you're ready to pass out. Or, stay up late and bring your instruments for the jam session on the patio that lasts until the wee hours of the morning.







I need this weekend. I need a weekend of denim and liquor served in mason jars and sincere music performed under a wide sky.

Labor Day parties are exhausting.

I had planned to stop by Shauna's house for an hour ... and ended up staying 10.











When I came home, the conversation went like this:

JASON: Wow. You're drunk.

ME: I did not have any tequila shots.

JASON: Huh? What does that have to do with anything? You're still drunk.

ME: I'm just saying, I could have been drunker.

Nice logic.

I just came home from a party, where I've been for the past 10 hours. And I've been drinking -- so that is my excuse for what happened next ...

You know, Jason has been all into raising orchids lately, and tonight he left a couple photos on the computer for me to look at. (I could have sworn they were cymbidiums, but what do I know?)

So I jumped into bed, and Jason asked if I had seen the pictures on the monitor.

"Yes indeed," I said. "And those are some fine plimbidiums. Uh, simphlibians ... Paskidians? ... Kloskidiums?"

"Actually," he said, "Those are ladyslippers."

And you know what? If you're an orchid dork, this story is really friggin funny.