April 13, 2010
Segments of a battered American landscape.  Deming, New Mexico. I had arrived after aimless wandering.  The hot streets gave up illusory bending air.  I pulled my car into a nearby parking lot to check the folded map resting on my passenger seat.  After getting out to survey the terrain, I noticed a pool.  I decided against a proper swim.  Dry, dead grasses and still-living aloe sprung up from the earth.  A marker along the pool walls said eight and one-half feet.  Nearby, a man stood in only a burgundy bathrobe and light blue slippers.  In his hand he gripped a stringless tennis racket. “New York?”  he said.  ”Long ways from home.” An eaten black bean burrito’s tinfoil sat balled up in the sun of my dashboard.  I smiled, lifting my shoulders.

Segments of a battered American landscape.  Deming, New Mexico.

I had arrived after aimless wandering.  The hot streets gave up illusory bending air.  I pulled my car into a nearby parking lot to check the folded map resting on my passenger seat.  After getting out to survey the terrain, I noticed a pool.  I decided against a proper swim.  Dry, dead grasses and still-living aloe sprung up from the earth.  A marker along the pool walls said eight and one-half feet.  Nearby, a man stood in only a burgundy bathrobe and light blue slippers.  In his hand he gripped a stringless tennis racket.

“New York?”  he said.  ”Long ways from home.”

An eaten black bean burrito’s tinfoil sat balled up in the sun of my dashboard.  I smiled, lifting my shoulders.

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One benefit to living amongst liars is the truth of universal fabrication of oneself amongst others.

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April 12, 2010
Segments of a battered American landscape.  Wyoming. I’d been driving along the park roads of Yellowstone late into the afternoon.  The sun was beginning to settle down over the horizon. A cloud came between the land and the sun, casting gargantuan shadows across the landscape. I got out of the car.  I stood at the edge of the wide Yellowstone lake, my sneakers nestled into the long wet grass, and stood motionless as the park blinked in silence.

Segments of a battered American landscape.  Wyoming.

I’d been driving along the park roads of Yellowstone late into the afternoon.  The sun was beginning to settle down over the horizon. A cloud came between the land and the sun, casting gargantuan shadows across the landscape. I got out of the car.  I stood at the edge of the wide Yellowstone lake, my sneakers nestled into the long wet grass, and stood motionless as the park blinked in silence.

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Travels With Charley, John Steinbeck

Travels With Charley, John Steinbeck

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April 11, 2010
Segments of a battered American landscape. Wyoming. We’d been waiting forty minutes for Old Faithful to blow. The wind was sharp and cold, unprepared onlookers shivering in soft thin jackets. Old Faithful finally erupted and people became silent, waiting for great torrents of water to flow from deep in the Earth’s crust . The mound gave up a frothy gasp and spit high into the air. A strong wind set a cold mist over us. When Old Faithful ceased, the crowd began to mumble. Feet shuffled along the stony walkways away from the benches. A child still sitting next to her parents turned to them and looked up. “That’s it?”

Segments of a battered American landscape. Wyoming.

We’d been waiting forty minutes for Old Faithful to blow. The wind was sharp and cold, unprepared onlookers shivering in soft thin jackets. Old Faithful finally erupted and people became silent, waiting for great torrents of water to flow from deep in the Earth’s crust . The mound gave up a frothy gasp and spit high into the air. A strong wind set a cold mist over us.

When Old Faithful ceased, the crowd began to mumble. Feet shuffled along the stony walkways away from the benches. A child still sitting next to her parents turned to them and looked up. “That’s it?”

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Segments of a battered American landscape. Montana.

Segments of a battered American landscape. Montana.

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Segments of a battered American landscape. Montana.

Segments of a battered American landscape. Montana.

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Segments of a battered American landscape. Montana.

Segments of a battered American landscape. Montana.

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March 9, 2010

House Party on Friday! You’re tall! With big glasses! And pretty! - m4w - 28 (williamsburg, brooklyn

I went to a party with a lot of well dressed young people, and although I am, I guess, kind of young too, I’m not as young probably… as anyone that was at the party. My clothes also don’t cost as much as any of theirs did. And my hair is clearly not well-styled. So I stood a few feet away from you, and I’m thinking, Oh jeez. She is a fox. She is a minx. (A minx is a female fox, and female foxes are sleek and beautiful and probably more clever than I would be, if I was being hunted by hot headed wealthy people on horseback.)

You had big black glasses and - I think - a blue plaid shirt. And you had a tattoo on the back of your neck. And I remember saying to you, are you trying to get through? The people in your way, I meant, and you said something like, obviously. I said something along the lines of, just start hitting people! Ha ha, I am probably the funniest person you met that night. …God.

There was this one time, when I was younger. I was with both of my parents and I was at the Sizzler. Did you notice the under-the-table transition that Sizzler went through? From actual restaurant to something more like a self-serve McDonald’s. Anyway, I was there, and I was writing in my notebook. I think I was drawing a frog. It looked ridiculous I’m sure. There was a little girl in the room with me and I kept looking at her. She was the prettiest thing I had ever seen in my entire life. I was too young to even know what love could have been, but I felt it. I felt a lot of love in my tiny little heart. My palms got all sweaty and I stuttered. Even though I hadn’t said anything, I stuttered! Wow, I was in love.

I remember getting home that night and scribbling in a little red journal. It was day 5 of my new journal. Doug Funny had inspired me to start a journal about my daily activities. A few years ago I found the journal and I saw what I wrote that night. It was something like, “Wow, I fell in love tonight. She was the most beautifuls thing I ever saw.” I wrote that I kept thinking of her on my drive home in the back of my parents car. She was my Patti Mayonnaise.

But look at this! I’m so much older and I don’t really keep a journal anymore. Why? It’s too much god damned work. I mean really, let’s tell the truth here. A journal is a lot of work and as sure as a goldfish swims, I ain’t gonna write in one every day. But I found a new Patti Mayonnaise! If I still kept a journal, I would write all about you in it. It would be like, three solid lines of “wow is she foxy.” “Wow, I could love to buy her pizza and sit down with her and watch her eat all of that pizza. And she would look at me and say, stop watching me while I eat! And I would try to stop, but she would smile.”

Isn’t that nice? You are foxy. And this is very funny to put up on Craig’s List. You will be sort of creeped out by how verbose this posting is, but you will also be happy that someone out there likes you. So that’s it. But if you want to like, e-mail me? And maybe get married or something? I’m not going to stop you from doing that. At the least, I will buy you some pizza and watch you eat. Or we can go to the Sizzler and order that really delicious toastbread. The breadtoast. Whatever it is. You know what I’m talking about.

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March 8, 2010

Nelson sat down at the cafe table with a little cup of tea and a little biscuit. As he wiped bread crumbs and butter from the side of his mouth, he looked at the woman with fancy black shoes waiting on line. He said to himself, oh, now I’ve got it. The more a woman’s feet look like hooves, the more I want to have sex with her. And then he drank more tea.

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