Went on down to that Tucson town. Met up with an old friend. She'd just gotten a new pet. A flamingo. Pink. Pretty impressive. I warned her against it, but she insisted that Fred and the flamingo play with each other while she and I talked. After a short while, we heard screaming noises come from the backyard. Fred had hopped up on that poor bird and ridden it straight into a bunch of high grass where it apparently impaled itself on a couple of long wire-like rods. We had to take the flamingo out back and shoot it. Twice. My friend won't talk with me anymore.
We went to some other places. Don't remember them all that much. Fred had gotten to me … converted me to his bad religion. Lots of Jack drunk.

But up in the mountains, southwestern Colorado, on a section of road known as the Million-dollar Highway, I had to break free. This is no road to do suffering a hangover. Steep drops. Kill you. Fred even straightened up for a while. So we headed out for the Highway. Had to drive over Monarch Pass in central Colorado to get there.

That's Fred there, on the tripod. Taped to it. Now, before you phreaks go complaining about me mistreating Fred, I had to tape him to the thing. Wind was blowing like that late summer day in the desert in 1983 where the sand, wind-driven and slamming into the slat-wood cabin I was living in bored a huge hole through a half-inch of pine. And here, at the top of Monarch Pass, elevation 11,312 feet, the wind had the same evil intent.

Shortly after this photo was taken, the wind blew the tripod off the edge of the cliff with Fred still attached. It took me a half hour to get to down to him. Fred had taken a hit to the head. Thought the drop was a carnival ride. Wanted to do it again. I obliged him.

This is the road leading to the town of Ouray, Colorado. The start, or the finish of the Million-dollar Highway, depending on your orientation to things. Some people who start out at the other end, or this one, in the winter never make it out. Get caught up in an avalanche that sweeps down the steep mountains, over the roads, catching up cars and snowplows in its white deathgrip, carrying them into the nothingness of the air off the edge of the road and smashing them into the ground below.

I drive this road in the summer.

Fred. In full party regalia.

Someone tried to drink him once.