The Humboldt trip could have been better. I never spent any time around those parts of California's lost coast, and so I gladly tagged along with Casey, Shannon, Hope, Matt, and a dog called "Beezer" on their journey up north. The goal was to visit their friend, Paul, who lived deep in the woods with his wife and son. I expected this weekend to be a healthy few days outside, living peacefully amongst the the tall green trees, unencumbered by the trappings of technology nor deafened by the din of the city.

It wasn't until we got in the rental van and were a couple hours into the five hour trip up 101 that I started feeling the onset of a nasty flu. The last part of the journey consisted of Casey twisting the van wildly around pitch black switchback dirt roads in the middle of the night. Somehow the gang found the edge of Paul's vast property and our gracious host met us at the van, led us into the quiet, dark wilderness, and showed us our sleeping areas.

There wasn't much of an "inside" anywhere. The family lived in a miniature silo (about 8 feet in diameter and 16 feet high). This was a vast improvement over the tent they supposedly lived in a year ago. The guest house was a gigantic treehouse dangling from several branches which could hold three sleeping bodies. The toilet was a hole in the ground. I got a spot in the treehouse and prayed I'd feel better come sunrise.

Fat chance. It rained all night and the treehouse swung in the wind, ten feet above cold, muddy ground. By morning I was grouchy as hell. The air was cold and wet. My head felt twice as large as normal.

I wish I could have enjoyed the "roughing it" aspect of this weekend, but was wholly unable to in my ill state. Paul's land stretched for acres, encompassing wild wooden hills and well-kempt agricultural lots. He killed one pig just for our visit, so there was plenty of ham served every meal. We had a "burn" of a currently unkempt field, which was pleasant given the misty rain evaporating right above the flames. I spent this rustic day doing a half-assed job of having a good time as not to bum out my pals.

As soon as the sun set I couldn't keep my aching eyes open. I was truly sick. I passed on a second night in the swinging treehouse, and opted to sleep in the van, crumpled in a ball underneath the seats, with Beezer the wet dog snoring right above me.

I crapped out for a good 15 hours, waking up near noon, stepping outside into the fresh clean air, and taking a hearty piss right there onto the ground. I felt my strength and ability to cope returning quickly. One more round of salty ham and pancakes and we were on our way back to the Bay.

The following night I attended a show in the city and only then noticed my right side was still pretty stiff, presumably from recently sleeping a long night in a cramped van. The dull pain didn't fade as fast as I thought it should and I practiced some old yoga moves I learned back in college.

The day before I left for Texas I dried myself after my morning shower and while glimpsing at my reflection in the mirror I discovered some redness beneath my armpit. I contorted to get a better view of my side and quickly it was revealed to me that, instead of muscular strain, my post-Humboldt discomfort was topical. In fact, it looked like a bite. A spider bite. My brain reeled with all the photos of extraordinarily big and colorful arachnoids that freaked the shit out of me during my suburban childhood. What kind of critters do they have up there in the depths of the forest? I rubbed a generous amount of antibiotic on the red spot, put a band aid on it, and headed off to work, trying not to think about it.

After work I packed for the long weekend ahead of me, and checked on my spider bite. Oddly enough, it looked worse - the center was a little bit darker than before. Yug! I settled on taking a long hot bath, hoping to somehow boil the puddle of rainforest venom in my side. To help me relax I put on the sultry sounds of David Sylvian's "Gone to Earth."

I hopped out of the tub, dried off, and checked my side in the mirror once more. Yet again it looked worse. Unable to inspect this oddity more closely, I put on my glasses. And suddenly, with the smidgeon of detail my spectacles afforded, I came to learn the dark spot in the middle of my wound had tiny legs.

All my surroundings turned white. The strains of Sylvian's crooning baritone echoed with infinite reverb between my ears. On the brink of panic, I stared in the mirror for a good minute at my pale face.

The numbers now added up: Humboldt county.. Woods.. I had a fucking tick! And it's been in me for four days! ALL the way inside me! And it wouldn't have come out except I rubbed some antibiotic all over its butt and almost drowned it in the bath!!

I suddenly regained my composure and felt the emergent need to remove this parasite, but couldn't remember how exactly to do it. Nothing from my minimal boy scout experience came to mind. Nor any words of wisdom from my father who spends a huge chunk of his free time gardening.

"Fuck it. I'm pulling this fucker out right now," I thought as I grabbed the tick's slippery ass between my thumb and pointer and yanked with all my might. Ignoring the pain, I yanked harder. And harder. It almost felt like it was hanging on to my rib for dear life.

And with a sudden squirt it was out. Oy. Now that it was free I examined it closely. The form of its alien body didn't make any sense to me. In fact, that was the first time I ever saw a real live tick. Well, it didn't seem to be alive anymore. I put it in a plastic baggy and started making phone calls.

First I called Hope, assuming she'd know a lot about ticks (I don't know why). She suggested I call my doctor. Somehow I managed to claw my way through health coverage bureaucracy and got my doctor on the phone at this late hour. He said I shouldn't worry about it, being I was going out of town tomorrow and all, but I should check back with him upon my return.

I wound down from this panic with some alcohol and hit the hay. In the morning I got up, made it to the airport, boarded the plane, then had four good hours to dwell on the healthy-sized bug nestled deep in my juicy flesh, garnering tasty nourishment for days.

Dave and a companion picked me up at the Austin airport. They both got a unwilling earful about my tick during the car ride into town. Back at his house (which, by the way, was where the first two For Carnation EPs were recorded), we hung out and waited for others to arrive, including Jai Young, Lisa, and Jason.

Lisa worked at a pet store, and I happened to bring my trophy tick in my luggage to show potentially interested parties. She examined it. The good news was that it was definitely a big ol' dog tick, not one of those deer ticks that could carry lyme disease. The bad news, in her words: "it definitely has no head."

Immediately I remembered why you shouldn't directly pull a tick out of your body - because it'll hang on with its teeth and you'll tear its head clear off, leaving it inside the host. So for the remaining part of my trip I had a case of the willies every time I remembered that I, Matt Lebofsky, contained a chunk of a bug.

That's pretty much the meat of the story, and it ends not with a punchline as much as a disturbing phrase that dribbled effortlessly from my doctor's mouth. Upon my return back to California, he inspected the slowly healing tick wound, and assured me that everything was okay.

"But what about the head?" I asked.

"Don't worry," he replied, "You will assimilate it."