Open Letter To God: Leave Alone The Japans!

OK, God, I can understand Your being pissed at us an all. Mankind's track record has been less than stellar to say the least. We have betrayed the trust that was put in us and squandered our gifts like spoiled children who never have enough. I fear to imagine Your frustration with us!

We are at war with the nature You have given us, loving it on one hand while destroying it with the other. But that duality has its time then it has time no more. Only Love is real and the Order of the Universe will preside in the End. Thank God!

We have sought "glory" in death even as we learned more and more of its futility. We claim the Age of Reason even as we reject reason as unreasonable. What is a warlord in the eyes of God? What will we cherish when there's war no more?

And yet, even amidst all our chaos and pain and ruin lay the beauty of nature, surrounding us, enveloping our tears and granting another chance to our madness. But though we may visit this earth many times, there's only one life to be had and nature can give only so much. Then madness becomes self-consuming.

So is it from ourselves we seek solace? To become one with that which exists outside of time? To realize the infinity of space and the infinity of a blooming flower? We seek, therefore we ask. But one shall not receive that to which one is not open.

Our beloved Japans once locked away her heart even though she was unique in all the world, carrying both East and West in her heart. A small island in land mass, a great presence in the world. But I do not ask You to save it because its people are either good or bad. No there is only one reason I ask You to save it...

I ask You to save it because it's the Japans!

The Stage Of Souls

It was cold outside, the wind unfriendly and wary, pushing me to shelter wanted or not. Sliding through the back door I found myself backstage of a lively community theater, surrounded by braided costumes, wafting perfume, stale sweat and an electric current crackling in the air. In the distant voices I could hear the wide eyes of fear, the soaring songs, and everything in between. Dear God, what an intoxicating sound! Lives exploding in every direction - this I had to see for myself.

I turned to hear the approaching bony-handed loud claps of a Grumpy Grandma admonishing a group of frisky frolickers gathered in spirited debate over the best beer in the bar down the road. "Acting! Acting!" she scolded in her stilted Austrian accent. "This place is for acting! Talk acting, not your irrelevant lives!" But the agitated faces cared not to debate and her agenda was confounded as her grumpiness scurried to find other lives to interrupt.

In the far corner glowed the adoration of the magi where a Confident Con smirked with authority, dispensing wisdom on all things acting and even the art of life. In his hands were the sacred scrolls that contained unseen formulas for happiness. His faithful followers imbibed his words to beseechingly sate their frustrated folly, congratulating their stubbornness as a sign of The Way. But I had seen the scrolls already and knew them to be blank.

Cotton Candy Gal pranced in with her popularity smilingly intact, passing out her treats in breezy bribery. She read her script of life with words sure to sell, never threatening honesty. Candy Gal played her role both on and off stage just happy to be in the spotlight regardless of reason. Then a toothache took her presents away.

In the dressing rooms I heard the hammer of Monument Man who collected and posted every positive word ever said about him on a wall to stand as the Sphinx of ancient Egypt. In this temple he prayed and fed his wooden idol as savior. "I have found enlightenment!" he cheered, safe among his words of praise. Then he hit his thumb with his holy hammer and threw the "goddam fucker" right through the monumental wall.

Slowly a Small Boy Who Knew Nothing walked onstage, oblivious to the fears and frets and the dreams and delights swirling around him. He shared his beating heart for his ears were filled with its sound only. Like a ripple descending from a rock's splash a hush spread out across the stage and onto the theater as a whole. It was no longer just a community theater at that point, but a point of light that shone as bright as any in the universe and we its lucky witnesses. Eat your heart out, Broadway. But never was the Boy able to recreate that moment - yet never did we forget the power that could come through anyone at any given moment, every soul born a genius.

Egos bent in the darkness tangled to and fro as each argued the worth of its existence. A Lovely Lady - no one like her in all the world! - lost her spirit, leaving to wander outside in search of another stage where she could find rebirth - and have to face herself all over again. Round and round spins the wheel but no soul can ever be replaced. Much blood spilled on that fateful floor by the haste of hopelessness, leaving some who stayed as crippled whispers in makeup, their smiles painted on in mocking disguise.

Then a cat purred onstage and all but the foulest tempers applauded her feline mystique.

Off stage I saw a Rounded Man with his portly belly eating an éclair with feet frozen to the floor. I never saw him move as his eyes looked longingly to the centered spotlight. He watched and stared and pretended to place the performer's heart into his body until finally he uttered, "A practical man knows when to let go of his dreams." But he was as a boulder in a stream where the water had learned to rush around him, and a bouncy ballerina brushed by him on her cue responding in passing: "What's practical about giving up your dreams?"

And the ballerina dazzled all watchers as a Glittery Girl with Broadway on her mind, breathing in the rarified air of hope, fueling both jealousy and inspiration. But did being a star of this stage make her a star on the Stage Of Stars? They all dared to think so as she carried a little piece of every performer and maybe just maybe their own acts weren't so meaningless after all.

In the aisle of the audience I saw a Mockingbird Boy. He mimicked the steps of the Glittery Girl - and of all the actors - seeing if he could do what they do. It was as if an unseen gun was pointed to his head demanding his talent to match theirs. But never did he want to perform with others, he just wanted to know for himself while never taking the stage, living a star's life in his mind.

Veterans of Broadways past intermingled in parental pose amid this motley crew of acting wannabes, jokers of the world, seekers of art, the disdainfully vain, the spontaneous laughers, the seethingly caged, the dramatically suicidal, those sensitive to the light, fingers snapping in rhythmic joy and beings just happy to be there. Some asked who were the real actors and some asked not. The battle for the spotlight endured like a stalemated tug-of-war. Some decried the ugly faces the struggle brought to light - as if truth can ever be kept down. But I saw all these things as the looks of love.

As for me I wanted out of there to find my own spot, my life lost, unknown to the stars. But to step out that door was to step back into the inhospitable cold of a homeless night. Where to go but the Stage Of Souls?

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Cars! Cars! Cars!

I love cars. I've loved them all my life and am fascinated by them as sometimes works of art. But I love the fact it's not just the beauty but the innovation of engineering that can be incorporated into a car that summons all kinds of original thinking. It's a full team effort to create a classic automobile.

1935 Packard Super 8. Beast cost $9,000 new!

I've been starved for years in the Dallas area to find a decent automotive museum. The Pate Museum has shut down and though it wasn't the finest of places it did have some great examples. But now, suddenly out of the sky drops in the Texas Museum of Automotive History stationed in Fair Park east of downtown Dallas. But they ain't just dumping cars in a showroom and leaving it at that. It's a living, breathing thing.

Yes, the streets of Dallas held their own
Formula 1 race back in the day

I talked with general manager Wilbert Grinsven and he told me how they host events, are looking to have a tie-in with the Formula 1 race in Austin next year and their general philosophy behind the museum. He said he wanted "something for everybody" and I'd say he's on the right track for that. Right now there are only 85 cars but in two years they'll be moving to a larger building that can hold 320. Wilbert plans on using that capacity.

More on this bad boy later

The museum is working with collectors to share their cars and to also rotate the ones on display so a visitor can have a unique experience on each visit. These people are genuine enthusiasts and it's contagious for anyone who visits. That is vital for something like this to truly succeed. The collection so far is eclectic with intelligent and high quality examples selected. I have a good feeling about this place and I can't wait to go back!

1909 Buick Model 10. 22 horsepower!


This handsome devil is 1929 Packard Roadster.
"Ask the man who owns one" was the company motto.


1948 Lincoln Continental given by Ford to Babe Ruth
the same year he died. Last car he ever owned.


Interior shot


1960s Formula cars are my favorites of all racers.
This 1967 Lotus SCCA Grand prix champ is a beaut!


1970 Plymouth Superbird. A car you don't forget!
These cars were so dominate on NASCAR they were banned.


Fully restored with lots of orange


I didn't see info for this Imperial
but it looks governmental.


Now that's a busy man!


Someday I'm going to run blocker for bootleg beer!
Eastbound and down!


2002 Dodge Viper with Spiderman paint job


Puff the Magic Dragster, 0-300 in 5 seconds


1948 Cadillac. I think it could run over a tank.


A Bentley from the Golden Globes ceremony.
Signed by...everybody!


A classic 1966 Ferrari 275 GTB, one of the all-time great Ferraris.
It's snarling V12 snuggled into the elongated nose along with
the gorgeous Pininfarina body combine to make this a very
collectible car.

Below is a small video. Be sure to come on by now, ya hear!



You can view the full set here

Super Bowl Sex Slave Hooker Hangout Myth

As anyone who's watched "Capturing the Friedmans" knows, hysteria sells. It's a tool used by the instigator to garner self-worship and accolades from on high, to be declared a "moral savior". You see these people everywhere posing as defenders of the oppressed and, uh, whomever else is the flavor of the day. They live for the line: "You're doing good and necessary work". Such is the need for purpose in the human psyche.

I got caught up - OK, trapped - by the hysteria when a meeting I attended was hijacked by one of these "hero women" with her pre-packaged slideshow of horrors. She wailed for a good half hour nonstop and by the time she was done the whole room was applauding - except for me. Being a con myself I can spot another a mile away. I didn't have any hard facts to disprove anything she said but I know a witch burner when I see one.

Here is some of the propaganda that was being floated around before the Super Bowl:

The Super Bowl Prostitution Issue

Arlington, Fort Worth and Dallas have been seeking solutions to the anticipated prostitution problem since being awarded the honor of hosting the beloved football championship. Officials were already proposing laws and enforcement efforts before it was known that the Green Bay Packers would square off against the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Prostitutes flooded Super Bowl XLIV in Miami, in droves of tens of thousands, as they visited the area to capitalize on the revelers' desire to have a good time. Dallas hosted last year's NBA All-Star Game and saw an estimated 40,000 prostitutes flooding the streets. The prostitution has gotten officials' particularly close attention because many of the prostitutes were only children, some as young as ten-years-old.

This from cafemom.com:

Something like 10,000 teen prostitutes and their johns are expected to be in Dallas this week. Yes, you read that right. Nestled right in with the Lombardi Trophy and those silly commercials is a scandal of stadium-sized proportions. And don't blame Dallas. The Super Bowl, according to Texas Attorney General Greg Abbott, "is a magnet for child sex traffickers." I think I may have just lost my appetite for chips, salsa and sitting in front of the big screen on Sunday.

From the cafemom article! Perverts!

There's more, but you get the idea. I'd read it in the paper myself, awed by the 10,000 figure and marveling at a hoped for economy of scale. But it wasn't until Supermom in her very suburban, very made up plastic face started screeching at me did I think something was up. Nothing she said seemed to make sense. The "facts" and "figures" didn't ring true and there were telltale signals of a con. To wit, she constantly threw out shocking statements that would discourage all but the bravest from questioning her a-thori-tie.

She told stories of underage girls going over to spend the night at friend's houses only to find themselves kidnapped by pimps, never to be seen again. She said the pimps had their slaves infiltrate the schools, make friends with other girls, invite them over and boom! they were snatched up too. Couldn't they just run away, you say? No! because the these uber pimps told them their families would die if they ever breathed a word. Why don't we hear about this going on, you ask? Well, you see, most of these girls die after a few years so there's no one around to tell their story. Except for the Super Saviors.

How convenient.

But the plastic blondie who was "trying to keep from crying as she spoke" had more. Those who did threaten to squeal to cops had to listen to their pets get killed right over the phone! They were forced to participate in the worst kind of orgies: the kind with older men! Not only that, the girls were branded like cattle to mark them as the pimp's property. That's when blondie very seriously told us to look at teenage girl's arms while standing in line and look for these brands. But don't confront the fire breathing pimp! Just alert the authorities and save a life.

You see, folks, that's what she's doing: saving lives. Or not.

Try researching what happens to these women
after their hands are used up for life

I was disgusted by her dirty stories and I had to keep averting my eyes to her sick pictures. I wanted to bitch slap that bitch for putting me through that! A few days later I saw an article in the Dallas Observer that made it all clear. Sure enough, the soccer mom terrorist was part of a Christian group called traffick911 that puts out wildly bogus figures. I believe the woman told us 30,000 children are forced into sex slavery each year. I knew she was a right wingnut when she kept emphasizing "and these are white girls being taken!" [emphasis hers].

I know what the morons out there are thinking: "Wow, he must not now there are really bad people in the world!" Yeah, that's me, just fell off the turnip truck. It's me who's been saying, "Show me a capitalist and I'll show you a rapist." I mean that literally and I'll let history be my judge. Rape is the American pastime. And because we know that but can't admit that, it gives us a psychological need to find a scapegoat, to burn the witch and thusly save us. Yes, there are heartless monsters everywhere, in corporate boardrooms, in church pulpits, in food processing plants - just about everywhere you look. It's you dear ones who are naive.

So what did happen at the Super Bowl?

Arlington, host to the game, unleashed extra manpower and bagged an impressive 59 arrests. But it found scant evidence of erotic hordes. Of the 100,000 supposedly Lone Star-bound hookers, Deputy Chief Jaime Ayala says, only 13 were found by his guys. Their busts largely involved rousting the local talent.

A big fizzle. Not that anyone wants to let facts get in the way of an angry self-righteous mob as this has turned into a political football:

Six years into his presidency, Bush had burned through $150 million on the fray. But of the 300,000 supposed victims during that time, the Justice Department managed to find just 1,362. Less than half were actual sex slaves. An even smaller number were underage prostitutes.

That's because human trafficking, as defined by the government, isn't solely about sex. It's usually about forced labor. Think of the Chinese man made to work in a kitchen to reimburse a snakehead's smuggling fee. Or the Mexican kid forced to toil on a Kansas farm.

By the time anyone realized all that money was flowing for naught, no one was brave enough to tighten the spigot. In Washington, it's far better to waste millions than give the appearance you don't care about kids.

Steve Wagner knows this. He worked for the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, serving as director of the Human Trafficking Program under Bush. He threw millions of dollars at community groups to aid victims. Yet as he told the Washington Post in 2007, "Those funds were wasted....They were available to help victims. There weren't any victims."

I don't hold for hysterics or any chains by another name. I don't hold for witch burning either - but I wouldn't mind scorching a few witch hunters myself. They are a danger to us all - just as is anyone who doesn't honor the truth.

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Harry's Top Ten Pics Of All Time!

I was stunned when I saw my Flickr account has close to 1,600 photos uploaded. I have tons more I have yet to process but I had no idea I'd done that many. So I thought this a good time to pick out a few of my favorite photos of all time. Barry said out of a 10,000 photos he finds a hundred he likes. It is a volume business.

Some of these are special to me because of what I was feeling at the time of the shot and/or that time of my life. I had moments of unexpected therapy, fighting through the pain, wondering what I was even doing. Sometimes when I'd come back and look at the pics I was amazed by some of the shots, thinking someone else must have taken them. (Those were far outnumbered by the "Aw, crap!" disappointments when I'd hope for more.)

With a few honorable mentions thrown in, here are my top ten Flickr photos to date:

Honorable Mentions:


For some reason the light reflecting off the water in this photo just lifts me up. This shoot was done on the spur of the moment as I ran back to my car to get the camera after moping while staring into the Kimbell Museum's waters.


You can see my shadow dwarfed by the enormity of the structures. To some they seem like ordinary grain elevators, but to me they are descended from the temples of Egypt. Those were hard times back then, never knowing when the granaries would be full or empty.


Mockingbird Station at night. Dallas did its light rail right and I love the Mockingbird Station with its exposed structure and airy feel. I never fail to marvel at it when I pass by.

10.

Admittedly, I could do all top ten from the Japanese Gardens due to my partiality. So I will stick with the ones that stand out to me (while even then leaving many out). This is a sideways photo that just lets the garden colors bleed, removing the structure from the eye. I'd like to do this again with a more dazzling set of colors.

9.

I saw these townhouses two years before I took this photo and they haunted me ever since. They have a European feel and lie on the outskirts of downtown Dallas as an urban outpost. Somehow the rain made it perfect.

8.

This was a lucky shot from the Japanese Garden Spring Festival, trying to time my shot with the strike. Didn't know I had it till I got home.

7.

This is from an abandoned grain elevator and I felt like I was peering into a lost, forgotten corner of the world. I kept imagining the workers and their lives but having it all come to an end as the building calls them back.

6.

I just wanted some snow pics. Due to the parking lot light I got this funky pic and I'm still shocked it came out the way it did. I like this one because it looked like I planned the eeriness. Barry says I have my own style. I do. It's called "haphazard".

5.

The Japans: Serenity captured alive.

4.

"Wailing Wall". This also was at the Kimbell museum, I.M Pei's masterpiece. I saw this man on a Sunday afternoon and I was afraid of taking a pic of what I saw as a private moment. But I felt the art outweighed my objections and I'm glad it did. This is one of those times where a real camera and photographer could have made gold.

3.

"The Razor's Sun". The Bridge, Dallas' homeless shelter, set behind the barbed wire. Walking the area has the feel of a prison and this shot captured all I wanted to say about that feeling: harsh, brutal, in the twilight of our civilization.

2.

This posting got ignored. Unfairly so, I say. Again, unexpected therapy came out of the shoot and I'll never forget it even if I failed that feeling later on. But this "Cows and Kilns" photo came out so perfectly with the contrast between man and nature I dearly wanted to show.

1.

The Lost Windmill. I could have taken a hundred photos of this. Many of the photos of my Last Picture Show shoot came out like magic but this is the one I love most. I don't dare try to put my finger on why it puts me over the rainbow but I feel I'm in another time and space when I view it, of seeing something buried deep inside myself.

These Aren't The Protests You're Looking For

"In order to understand the structure of the universe
one must first understand the nature of responsibility."
-Albert Einstein

It has been said that the definition of tomorrow is to take what's happening today and move it into the light. To wit: the "economic boom" of the previous decade was not a boon but in fact the opposite. These things happen because we live in a collective state of self-deception and denial. We know this but do not admit this - which makes us a silly people. And a tragic people. The fate of the present is always rooted in the past and this can be seen today.

And since mankind lives in a state of deception, there are those who would profit from that and even build their homes on it. For where there is deception there is darkness and that darkness allows the lie to be born. Hence, there is a marketplace of definitions of this "unknown" reality we all struggle with and each marketplace has its buyers and sellers. If I can sell you on my "truth" I can market myself as a good man!

So I sit here on the moon watching the crowds gather and move from one bucket of truth to another hoping to find the one that makes them feel the best. It's sort of like watching cattle with ADD. Like cardboard figures in a shooting gallery, a new hero pops up only to be shot down once his "truth" is revealed under the ever-growing light (e.g. first GWB, now Obama). Of course, those who speak the actual truth are actually shot. We want a hero who makes us feel good with lies that can be sold as truth, which keeps us constantly switching sides:

MARULLUS
Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he [Caesar] home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

It's tough being a hero!

We are still of the generation of which Jesus spoke, just as backwards and superstitious ("Profits are real!") and self-serving as ever. Look at the Wisconsin protests and tell me what you see - or rather, how many ways can it be sold? The dawning of a new middle class movement? Americans sticking up for their rights at last? A long needed push for equality to right the American ship? I could write an eloquent essay supporting each of those viewpoints and I too would be applauded as Caesar.

But I like me too much to do that.

As we here in the West warn of the Middle East protests needing to support themselves by enacting social freedoms that strip off the chains of unquestioned religious laws lest their efforts be doomed and swallowed whole by a dictator by any other name, we too need to take that same caution here at home with our own unquestioned religion: greed. Do I see what is going on in Wisconsin and in places of solidarity as a rebuke of greed? More like no honor among thieves, I'd say.

Going back to Albert's quote, we have to place events within the context of responsibility. So Americans want their voice back? Tad late for that, I'd say. Where were the protests when we raided and looted another country, butchering children and driving millions from their homes? Where were the protests against the lies told to us even after indisputable proof was revealed? Where were the protests when civil rights were suspended, which puts us all in danger? The list goes on. You see, when you are silent in the face of injustice to others, then injustice shall be your fate as well. That is the order of the universe.

Just imagine the guy getting killed
is an Iraqi and you'll feel better

We have fed the dogs of war and one day they will turn on us to be devoured in due course with their insatiable appetite. Our worship of oil will cut off our food supplies and our belief that money will save us will destroy our environment. There will be more protests and screams as in turn each group finds its ox to be gored next on the altar of greed. But that is the fate we are choosing on a path built on deception: it leaves nothing still standing.

"Not one stone here will be left on another;
every one will be thrown down."
-Jesus Christ, on the foundation of modern society

These things will happen because that is what's happening today here in the dark. Maybe repentance isn't such a bad idea after all - and then we can build something real.

---------------

You're all a bunch of day trippers!

There Are No Ferraris On The Moon

Life in therapy land:

"My heart hurts. It hurts bad. Feels like my chest is in a giant vice and it's squeezing me. I can't even take full breaths."


"I have a pill for that-"


"I don't want a goddam pill!"


"I'm just trying to present a solution to your situation."


"That's a solution to YOUR situation, you brainwashed bigot! There's no pill for guilt or loneliness! You'd just as soon as drug up the world than have to actually help someone."


"Help is what I'm all about."


"Yeah, yeah, that's what you have to tell yourself - even when it's not true."


"Ok, then. How can I help?"


"By knowing that you can't."


His face finally uncontorted. "You've been thinking about the Ferrari again, haven't you?"


"Never stopped."


"If you fall into depression no one will hire you."


"I'm goddam homeless! If I can't be depressed now when can I be? You go be fucking happy in the concentration camp. I think it goddam sucks!"


"That's just not a practical way to be in the world."


"The world is not a practical place!"


"You have another place to live?"


Therapy: it's all about gaining the upper hand. "The moon's looking better every day."


"There are no Ferraris on the moon."

"Good, then I can't fuck any of them up!"

"Is that what you want?"

"I can't stop reliving that moment. It hits me like a hammer. I keep seeing that light pole and remembering me flooring the pedal, all the time telling myself, "No! No! You can't do that!" but I did it anyway. I can't live with this. It's like I'm stuck in time."


"You said before it was the guilt."


"Yeah, well you try being friends with someone while stealing their car! It's goddam hell! The guilt was fucking killing me! Destroying it was the only thing I could see to do. She was nothing but kind to me but I stole her car and then I wrecked it and now I can't face it."


"Did you ever tell her you stole it?"


"No! She hates me enough as it is. Bad enough she knows I wrecked it. My life is a fucking hell now. Every time I walk out onto the street I'm afraid I'm going to run into her and it's not like she's ever going to be around a homeless area with her kind of money but I can't get it out of my head she's going to find me and kill me. Driving that car was the first time I'd felt alive in years. Now I can't trust me ever again."


"Perhaps she's forgiven you."


"Not sure I want her to."


"Sulking your way to victory?"


I wanted to hit the fucker. I'm the only one he uses sarcasm on - probably because he sees me use it so much he knows he can get away with it. But I didn't have an answer.


"You know what I do? I go to the wrecking yard where it ended up - I even find myself there in my dreams - and I get a piece of the car and I hit myself with it. I don't know what else to do."


Then we sat there in silence the rest of the hour.

Orange Blossom Trail

jeffrey was living the fantasy and my eyes stretched to see the into the pale blue crystal clear water where they stood side by side both topless with her flawless body she knew to be flawless and his charm he knew to be charming and they were smiling at each other in the bright florida sun but i strained only to see her ass as they wriggled along until the perfect pair came out of the water and i played it cold by pretending i had just noticed them and the flawless girl ran to the back of jeffrey's old ratty pickup where her girlfriend was laying out in the sun and they shared knowledge of what just happened and giggled in the thrill of it as i stared uncontrollably at the pickup girl's breasts and remembered she had been designated for me but she'd have nothing to do with me resenting my even breathing so i was relieved to see her friend distract her and make her happy so i'd be off the hook then they both put on bikini tops to their glistening bodies as jeffrey gathered them up to head into the bar and i followed along like a lost puppy and noticed a careless photograph just outside the door and i briefly wondered if i would be declared useful if i somehow returned it but everyone else had gone in not giving it a second thought and jeffrey was behind the bar because he knew the cool owners and he was grabbing a beer out of the cooler and i wondered if he grabbed one for me but i couldn't see his hands in the vast crowded room of this old metal building that was really crappy but nobody cared because of the scene inside and the bar had almost no open seats and when jeffrey sat down i finally saw he had only one beer and even though he was with the flawless girl i saw him talking right away to this cute blonde chick like he'd known her all his life as he oozed more of his practiced charm and i thought how even i wanted jeffrey to like me but i was on my own between the sex liquor and music so i struck a pose in case anyone was watching of someone who suddenly remembered he'd forgotten something very important and needed to go outside to get it but really i just needed to go outside and it was dark now with a cheap sign flashing in the parking lot as i stared at the passing cars of orange blossom trail thinking how i didn't even have a car and how i wished i had a nice one but jeffrey had only that ratty pickup and he did just fine so i started the long walk back to the house crossing to the other side like i was crossing the rubicon curious to know if anyone had noticed i was missing but knowing they did not and would not care if they did so i looked for companionship with the dive bars and auto shops and decaying industrials of this always busy road and i thought how strange to see these gleaming new tire rims untouchable like stars in the sky hanging off this old rusty rack outside a cheap shack selling old tires and older dreams never made whole but i had to make sure no one thought my dreams unbecoming so i assumed the purposeful air of a wanted man and when i looked back across the street i saw two girls sitting on stools out front of a small strip joint and one waved to me the cool secret agent in her eyes no doubt but i thought if she knew me she wouldn't waste her time or maybe all she cared about was in my wallet and that was empty too so my failure was complete and i thought "i have to get off this boulevard" where everyone can see me but when i strayed back behind to the hardcore houses the dogs and chain link fences did not welcome me as an outsider as i ran back to the road devising a cover story for my presence as a man without money or motive but all i could think about was how that damn car alarm going off down the block was annoying the hell out of me and how an internet friend asked me about the end of the world and i told her it was coming but nobody would admit doing wrong and she cringed saying she better put her money in a safe place and i told her when that time comes money won't mean anything more than the paper it's printed on just like now but no one admits that either and i had no answer then just like i had no answer now walking down orange blossom trail where no one cares about your insights just your scene but my air was wearing thin on that damn neverending road of despair so when i finally got close back to the house i ran through my weariness to be safe and unseen and i felt safeless as ever as i opened the fridge to get a beer thinking how everyone would laugh knowing i had to walk five miles to get a beer when jeffrey just reached around the bar for free to get one and by the light of the open fridge i saw my world and found it wanting so i turned on the tv as my portal to life and like always a late night bikini contest was on one of the local channels desperate for ratings so i obliged them marveling at the girls unafraid and free and i wondered how they ever got that way and i worshiped them as was my wont until finally i pulled the throw over my head on the couch but my dreams were haunted by my lonely evening walk and the coming inquisition of why i left the fun of orange blossom trail