Yesterday a Canada goose honked at my car as I passed by.

ABOLISH THE POLICE But today I was on a crowded highway where everyone was going too fast—like legit no one was near the speed limit—and I had to stay in the right lane to pass a cop who had somebody pulled over on the right shoulder. I couldn’t go left but the cop was directly in front of my car walking toward his own on the shoulder, looking, I suddenly realized, smokin hot in his short sleeved uniform, hat included, and full-sleeve tattoos. I gave him an apologetic little wave to which he immediately responded with a gesture of “no problem” and whew! If I didn’t think of how badly I did not, did not, want him to stop me further down the road.

I saw so many bears in the Smoky Mountains that I had to take notes.

Whenever I spy an actually shitty tattoo, I play this little game with myself. This is kind of a secret and it’s a little embarrassing. But the game is called “hot? or hot garbage?” Cuz think about it. I have some shitty tattoos. So do most punk rockers. There’s Steve-O, and Nick Nolte. And all of my best friends! So whenever I see a shitty tattoo I try not to stare when I’m checking the person out. Because to be completely honest: I can never tell.