I'm leaving for Tucson tonight, driving by myself, going at night to eliminate some of the horror that comes from the endless stretch of highway at mid-day. It�s five hundred miles, so you can be sure I�m packing all my good eight-tracks. I�m going by myself, but I wish the Keelhauler was coming along for the ride. The last time I went to Tucson alone, it took me nearly a year to get out again.

I�m not tempted to stay there. For one thing, I read that it was a hundred degrees there today, which is hideous, and also made me realize I have nothing to wear. I went through this when I left San Francisco and went to Tucson for the first time, determined to not make plans, but to see where life would take me. I replaced my black microfiber with hilarious (now) �DKNY Pure� cotton skirts with little embroidered flowers, and linen shirts. After two minutes there, I realized that a) no one was dressed like me, and b) no one cared what I was wearing. Also, the fact that I was wearing shoes rendered me overdressed for nearly any occasion. I attended the funeral of a U.S. senator, and there were guys there in cut-offs. Eventually, the heat and Coors Light on tap and total lack of a job allowed me to degenerate to the point of wearing jeans shredded nearly to rags, and a Jack Daniels t-shirt that made me resemble Joan Jett. Happily, the hoodlum friends I made there were usually too drunk to focus a camera, so there are no photos of my great new look.

In retrospect, I kind of enjoy the little slide show in my head showing my own disintegration. It starts with my arrival in Tucson, my beautiful BMW, Valencia, packed with coordinated linen separates and cosmetics, my resentful cat asleep on the passenger seat. You can see that I have a good haircut, and that the ring I�m wearing is 18 karat gold. A few more slides down the line, and all of a sudden I�m wearing jeans, where previously I hadn�t even owned pants, not even as part of a suit. And my roots are growing out, and I�ve apparently stopped blow-drying my hair, letting it twist into a form reminiscent of a creosote bush after a monsoon. There are two trips back to San Francisco with a U-Haul trailer to carry my belongings, and a new boyfriend missing an incisor and wearing army green pants cut off below the knee with a knife. The wardrobe and everything else slides downhill from that point for ten more months. The day I left town, it was in a dusty-blue Volvo 240 wagon bought for $500 at the Salvation Army, and its test-drive was from Tucson to the California coast, crammed full of everything I hadn�t sold at my yard sale. My only companion was a frozen cat. Mr. Boy had died in February and unwilling to bury him in Arizona, I kept him in the freezer for eight months, where he presided over the ice trays at parties. When I left Tucson, I stopped by Albertson�s to pick up dry ice, and Mr. Boy rode with me back to California, where I buried him, marking the official beginning of three years of limbo.

So, now that I�ve broken out of the inertia and there�s little chance I�ll get stuck there, I�m going back to Tucson. My friend Al Perry has a new CD out, and there�s a party to celebrate. I haven�t asked Al what he�s going to wear, but I recently learned to knit, and I made Al a scarf (bonus; machine washable!), even though I know it�s useless in the desert. He said he loved the scarf, and that he was going to wear it at his CD release party �even if it�s 114 goddamn degrees.� I can�t imagine he�ll actually do it, but you never know. I guess it doesn�t matter what you wear if you love it.

I asked the Keelhauler what I should wear, and he said, �Clothes. Wear what you always wear.� He doesn�t seem to realize that my attire varies depending on my activity. I pressed him, �What did I wear when I lived in Tucson?� and he gave a similar answer. �Clothes. Jeans,� then broke into �Everyday Clothes� by Jonathan Richman: �Jeans and a sweater. Jeans and a shirt!� neatly turning the focus of the conversation to his high-quality singing voice.

I wonder if I�m invisible to him or if his obliviousness indicates a deeper form of affection, detached from my appearance. But then I think about it, and realize, nah. I�m invisible.

Star of the day. . .Ma Joad