I left LA around noon, to make it back up to Oakland by 10pm, maybe time to meet Amy after her flight and eat some Korean food. And I had a brief Scream screed due for TheFeature.

Just partway up Highway 5 from Los Angeles and Allison makes contact - I met her through this site, emailing and posting comments. I interviewed her years ago as part of Links.net folks but I haven't posted it yet. "I have a lot going on," I said by way of apologizing. She verbally punched me.

That was over oysters. She invited me to take the road past Santa Barbara to get back to San Francisco. It's a longer road but I had already missed meeting her on my last drive in February. So I arranged to stop in her town yesterday. I suggested we grab a bite to eat before I hit the road. She insisted we do some hot room Bikram yoga. That was her plan last time and she met all my whining about deadlines and driving with teasing and pushing.

So I found myself in a bikram yoga studio in the prototypical California resort town. It's like doing yoga in a sauna. This Bikram guy was pictured on a poster in the room, twisted around himself with immaculately coifed hair sitting on top of an animal skin, on the beach. What kind of a yogi sits on a pelt?

The room itself was a non descript facility in a mall, with extra heating units abounding. Man that place smelled strong. The funk. Months and years of hot human dank. I'm imagine if that yoga sweat studio ever moves out and some poor clothing store tries to set up there, that room will never stop smelling like old pores.

Our class was lead by a late middle-aged looking man wearing a headset. He kept up an incredible steady banter - sportscasting our suffering. This was only possible, I figured, since he wasn't performing any of the incredibly ass-kickingly hard exercises he was describing. Sweat was running into my nose, into my eyes, my knees were slipping against each other, my shorts were wet, I touched my slick and slimy skin. The towel beneath me was wet with sweat. I did all that I could, skipping parts of only a few exercises. 90 minutes of hard yoga in a hot room - I couldn't decide whether to vomit or pass out. I drank a ton of water. I threw death threats at Allison with my eyes - for inviting me into this hell.

All the while, this guy is talking about the monkey mind and encouraging us to look at ourselves in the mirror. Never been to a martial arts or yoga tai chi type class where I was so encouraged to look at myself. Red face ribs showing huffle puffle wet hair and bony knees. I kept trying not to look at the lady in front of me, with a tight body and a massive boob job. Boobs popping out the side of her tank top, as she's standing on one foot, grabbing the other and lifting her arm. Crazy boob job and yoga.

It was a throttling experience - I did feel quite high afterwards. Like I wanted to sit in a swimming pool or lay on a wood bench and feel all my chakras coursing with chi. Drink an assload of gatorade and eat a pile of cheeseburgers. Here's a picture of Allison and me, just after class.

Driving back, scenic tour through Santa Barbara - I blasted Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" off her IPod, "a place of neverending happiness, you can always see the sun, day or night" and I watched some very white teeth and light colored hairs turn towards our cruising station wagon. She pointed out Brophy's near the ocean, and I suggested we top off our workout with a dozen raw oysters. We traded stories and laughed good and hard.

Then I did have to hit the road, for all my work and wanting to sleep in my own bed. 8.50pm at a small rest stop near Gaviola I talked with a lone-riding biker lady, coming back from her place in Montana, at the end of a three days ride. She suggested I had at least five hours to go. Shouldn't I drive across the state some, to hit the straight-shot 5 freeway? No, 101 is a beautiful drive. At night? I asked, incredulous. It's not worth driving over to the other freeway, she promised.

Another hour of driving and I realized I was tired. Too tired to keep on - I could have had a Red Bull energy drink to stay awake. But what would Bikram say? I decided not to push myself hard and bleary eyed pulling towards Oakland two am no food no lights not safe. Why not sleep full eight and drive straight in the day light?

Working mobile/internet, CHecker tried to find me a room from some OddWorld local San Luis Obispo Indie Game Jam veterans. Too short notice - happily, I ended up in the magic grounds of the Madonna Inn. One of America's great hotels - kitsch embraced and extended through every fixture - each room a unique homage to some aspect of travel or location. A great attitude too; this solo driver was offered a $95 rate for a night in Swiss Bell. Stone walls, waterfall shower, wooden ceiling. As close as I've been to the style and brilliance of Love Hotels in my birth nation.

I sat in a chair and pounded out my assignment, using my Treo 600 mobile phone as a 150k bps modem since the Madonna Inn may be the last bastion of true 'merican taste but it only has dial-up.

Then I laid in bed, admiring the hand-painted broad wooden armoire, very much Swiss-like. I watched Hosni Mubarak on C-Span, waiting for him to give some insight into modern Egypt. Instead he was asked mostly about Israel and Palestine. Sigh.

When I woke up this morning, the stained glass swiss cows and flowers had come alive. Behind the windows, trees and a grass covered rock pile. Beautiful!