Frame by Frame

This feels like one of those periods of time where I would do well to take a week by myself and look at shit I’ve never seen before or have only seen a few times before. Green fields and grass and hills and trees Ill never see fall over in the rain and trees that only go from green to black. Trees presumably jealous of our trees that go from bright green to bright reds and yellows and fire orange and crunch crunch when you walk through them in the crisp months. Surely they must be jealous of this.



It just gets boring sitting still like this, even if I was supposed to already be something and somewhere by now. I was thinking of how the Indy 500 is this weekend. Wait is it? Yeah, it is Memorial Day weekend apparently. I love Indiana. Most boring state you could ever think to be in in your life, but it looks nice. It seems every time I am in Indiana, it is the state I stopped in late at night, and get some sort of fresh start in the morning. It’s been sunny and wide eyed blue skied every time I’ve been there (four or five times now). The best way to start any day of a road trip, Day One, Day Eight, whatever, is obviously on one of those kinds of days. When I went to Oklahoma last summer and trained back home after that depression-fest, we left Massachusetts when it was pouring rain, it was like 5:30 PM on a Friday night when we left so you can imagine how miserable the first three hours or so. We were also dragging a car behind the U-Haul, had two cats and I was two weeks into not smoking cigarettes anymore after eighty three years or whatever it was. After that first night of driving, I was no longer allowed to drive the U-Haul truck. A few days of day dreaming in the passenger seat with a cat in my lap was just fine with me though even if her and I barely spoke and she had stopped laughing at my jokes at that point.



So the first time I went to Indiana I went to the race track and took the tour and took pictures of cars for the dudes back home....and I just spent twenty minutes looking for them on this laptop and they are not here. I have a number of missing pictures I am discovering, as they are on my Windows machine I don’t have set up. What a horrible life I have, now I can’t finish what I was going to talk about here. Fuck you.



Some of these women that come in here, I mean there are some religious folks coming in here and they look like normal nice people. But then one will come in with all sorts of makeup on looking like she just snorted ten thousand lines of cocaine off of eight thousand cocks, but in 1986. That’s what some of the women who come in here look like to me.



I rarely judge people by how they look, but I will judge them by certain criteria. One is how long they can look you in the eye. Another is, and this one is very important and goes along with another situation as well. “How useful will this person be if some serious shit goes down?”. For instance, if we are under attack by armed men and women surrounding our house how good is a baby going to be in this situation? Sometimes you have to make tough decisions. I’m not suggesting you murder a baby, but they do make noise, and can’t use weapons. They can be used as bargaining tools though...If you have to leave to get away from the situation. Maybe go on the run for a while, you aren’t going to take your one legged friend with you, or someone who can’t drive a car right?



Another time I try and measure this same thing is when I am in public, especially an airplane, or any tight quartered place like a small restaurant. I like to survey the room to see who I should maybe try and team up with, who is going to be a pain in the ass about shit. Who might I have to knock out or kill just to make things easier? Who might be working against us, etc. If you don’t figure these things when you are out and about at places you’re not going to do well at all really. Right now where I am there are....twenty six people in here including the employees. I see about three I think I could really count on if we all of a sudden are invaded. Two guys over there would probably just immediately be shot by the invaders, I can tell which women here would probably not stop screaming and would also be shot and killed by the invaders. There is one woman here (the one who looked like the 80’s coke whore) who may or may not be working with the invaders. There is one black guy here, kind of big. Probably can’t run very far, but could be a good ally as he has a pretty good mean face like me. Everyone else in here is a fucking pussy. I think as long as the number of invaders was under twenty, we could probably take them with improvised weapons and some secret plans and techniques I already have planned out in my head. (80’s coke whore woman has just met up with someone and kissed him on the cheek, they are now sitting together. He’s about 5’4”, a little meaty on his bones, but his button down shirt and hairdo indicate I could easily take him out even if he does have a gun on him. Judging by how he looks and how he carries himself he’s obviously the “money guy” in this covert gang of thugs that will soon invade this Starbucks and try to kill all of us. Anyway, I could easily deal with him I think. I already se five things around me I could throw at him that would shock and disable him for a brief few seconds.)



So I have been off and on working on a “novel” among a million other projects that maybe someday will exist. I’m trying to come up with a good opening line for the novel though. Here are some I have come up with so far:

I walked among the brokenhearted buildings of a city that lost its soul when she left town.

Drunk and brains fucked out, we left my apartment for a cup of silent coffee, and loud haircuts.

He was part Michael Caine, part Ted Kennedy, and he was on PCP.

We John Coltraned ourselves downtown, and made our way into the disconcerted evening of nightclubs, smoky all night diners, and characters out of a bad Steely Dan song.

The night he broke Nobuko’s heart, he felt as if he had single handedly avenged the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and finally gotten the closure on this tired relationship.

Jennifer was ready, fuck was Jennifer ready.

With my messenger bag filled with memories, and mix tapes, I put on my Sauconys, and left Detroit for good.

She made me feel like Jesus Christ, I made her feel like a pile of dirt.

The acrid taste of the night before filled my mouth, as I emptied the contents of my pocket onto my dresser; this would be the final morning of my coke binge.

My father would have been proud; I strummed the first few chords of “Private Dancer” by Tina Turner on my guitar, and faced my first day as a transvestite with vigor not seen since the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center on September 11th, 2001.

She fucked him for coke, he fucked her because his wife was pregnant.