Asthmatic Giant

Telling Pete about the Satanic Cemetery was the last thing the mentally imbalanced dude needed to hear. Blame it on the Foxen Syrah or the Yumboldt, but it came to me, just when all original thoughts for the evening had retired amid the inebriated haze. “Oh Pete! Fuck! I haven’t told you about the Satanic Cemetery! You should take photos of that while you’re here!”I went on to describe the eerie, crooked-tombstoned grove beneath the Eucalyptus trees in the Santa Maria Valley, right next to a vineyard. His glossy widened brown eyes soaked up every word of it. It gave him a somehow welcome break from the sci-fi movie that had been tripping him out. The cemetery was a half hour away from my house, and Pete in all his fragile-emotional-just-broken-up-road-trip-wonder was absolutely positively the last man that needed the existence of such a storied grave site in the database of his brain. It was over now.

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