Help us, Ibuprofen-Obi, you're our only hope . . .
I feel like a turtle crawling over hot pavement, worse than I did a few days ago--before I really got into the sleeping. I wondered why this was so, looked it up and discovered the concept of stress hormones. I called some people and compared notes. Apparently the Biv crew is mostly a little worse for wear, except for J. Bailey, out at a show tonight with my mister, who had to inflate himself with a tire pump before heading out the door. Going for the kill, says our Polish ringleader, whenever we're out to finish something impossible. He plots late into the night with maps and cigarettes, like a modern Slavic warlord. The last day we worked fourteen hours. In the end I wiped out on the heli-pad and cut my hand, making lime-squeezing somewhat intolerable. No matter, most things treeplanting take longer than expected.
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