the promised land.
© 1996 Jamie Zawinski <>

We had just finished moving in; we had traveled the width of the continent, it was the first time I had lived in a house that wasn't my mother's, and also the first time I had lived with a girlfriend. And we had hooked up with a friend who had made the pilgrimage not long before.

The living room was filled with boxes, but the truck was empty, and the Millipede machine was happily humming away under the stairs next to the water heater. Our bruises acquired while lugging that monstrosity down the rickety stairs were starting to hurt less.

Tunes were playing on the boombox in the living room, with the patio doors open wide so we could hear them from outside, and the three of us got into the hot tub. The sun was just going down, and we watched it gloriously bleed away behind the Golden Gate bridge. And we sat there for a while, drinking italian sodas and generally being mellow, when our wise friend made an interesting observation.

``Man,'' he said, ``it's fuckin' January.''

We were all kind of floored by this. We sat. We soaked. We contemplated.

Later he added, ``if we were still in Pittsburgh, we'd probably be sitting around at the office, wanting to go over to McDonald's and get some food, but not wanting to go outside because it was such an arctic wasteland.''

We laughed about this. We sat. We soaked.

After a while, he spoke again: ``It's not even February yet. Remember February?''


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