I'm sorry kick ass music Sunday.

By now everyone who went is sure to be asking, "Where was J.T. at Jake's show lastnight, this Sunday in November the 8th?" And I'll tell you; I had every intention of attending.

At 6pm I snuck out of my meaningless job where I've been working as a layman to Sarasota's pseudo wealthy.

Long story short I got out of there and headed to Publix having just enough money for two frozen pizzas and a 12 pack of Tab, plus whatever the door fee would be at the show and at least one vodka apple cider. In the parking lot there were these young people in burlap sacks and stripey socks with greased up hair and turnip mustache sort of attitudes and I thought "Fuck yeah, what is this, crazy Sunday?!" It wasn't until about 10 seconds later that I realized I hadn't thought that, but yelled it, and kicked one of the smaller dreaded guys at the same time. One of the youthful leaders, or the tallest and most daringly five o'clock shadowed looked at me and stepped sideways then said, "What's your problem man?"
I knew he was feeling hostile so I played it cool. "Are we kidding ourselves here or having a great f-ing time?" I was self concious about having really said the F word earlier, so I was taking it down a level. I continuted in a quickly improvised Caribean accent. "We just having a crazy Sunday here or what?" By this time they were circling around me a little and the accent didn't seem to be doing the trick. I looked over my shoulder and saw it was a full moon. I realized one, they were probably devil worshippers and two I should not try to be sexual with their girlfriends. Not because I didn't want it, which they didn't, but because the full moon is the one day a month in which I am incredibly sexually boring. It's an old family disease.
But that's not important, what is, is that these sons of bitches were probably out here worshiping the devil, and now they were going to kill me. I did the only thing I know how to do, the only thing I'm trained to do, and kicked the small dreaded one again and yelled "GET OUT OF HERE!"
They took this as an attack, not knowing that I was yelling 'get out of here' to myself. They came charging so I went running. I knew I'd never get in my car and start it before they overtook me, so I made the decision to ditch my ride. On foot I ran toward the road and up onto Ringling all the way to Payne Park. I looked back for the first time and saw they hadn't followed me. Knowing I couldn't very well go get my car this moment, and feeling like tying one on, I went to a Mexican bar to catch a breeze.

Inside were the two usual heaving bossomed senioritas and about twelve older Mexican gentleman. Noticing there was no room at the bar I took a small table for myself. The sweet one, the cocktail girl with the pretty face and bleached curls came over and asked me what I wanted.
"My life back."
"Excuse me?" She asked, leaning in.
"My life back." I said again, only slightly louder. She heard me this time, and judging by the damp sparkle in her pupil I could tell she was into these sort of desperate patron to cocktail server type jokes. I decided to go on.
"You won't even believe what's just happened to me." I went on, tapping the seat next to me. "I was just nearly-"
"What would you like to drink?"
I recovered the floating syllables at the end of my last sentence and said, "A vodka apple cider and two bowls, one filled with peanuts, one without."
She nodded and retreated back behind the bar. I could feel my heart slowing a bit from the run. I had nearly been killed but still had Jake's music on my mind. I knew if I wasn't there Jake would TP my life. A few moments slipped by as I sat back, alone in the booth, listening to some crazy Spaniard yodeling and f-ing terrific song on the juke box. My drink came along with the peanuts. I paid the girl, and just before she could turn to go I said, "You know what this needs?" Knowing that when thinking truthfully the answer to that question is almost exclusively 'black olives' or 'a father's love' She turned her head wonderfully.
"Some companionship!" I said.
She looked at me for a few seconds longer, offered a sympathetic smile then left me. I looked at my drink wishing I had ordered a run jangler. Wishing it wasn't a full moon. Wishing I had my car. Wishing I was on my way to the show. 'By God' I thought. Jake will simply crucify me if I'm not front row center. That maniac has been trying to get me to one of his shows for a leopards year. I turned and caught my reflection in the glass behind me, clearly seeing how sexually boring I was this, the November 8th.

Some time went by, and a few more drinks went down. I figured I should head back to try to get my car now if I was going to make it to the show. I finished up, paid, affectionately said my goodbyes and started the walk back up to Publix. I could see they hadn't flipped my car over or set it on fire but were still up there hanging out. I walked in circles for a few minutes, deciding whether or not I was brave. A buzz in my pocket made me jump. It was my phone. I pulled it out and saw INCOMING CALL: Jake
"Oh hell!" I shouted, ducking down a moment after, hoping the devil worshippers didn't hear me. Finally, I swallowed hard and answered. "Yeah?"
"J.T.?!"
"Yeah. What's up J?"
"Where are you?"
"Umm, I'm on my way."
"I'm about to go on."
I waited for him.
"Did you hear me?"
"Yeah. You're about to go on about what?"
"I'm about to go onstage you mormom!"
"Oh. Yeah, I'm uh. I'm just trying to get into my car. I got in a bit of a throw down with some devil worshippers and such, and they're kind of, guarding my car from me. So, you know, I hid out with this eye pastry over at some Mexican bar, waiting for these devil demons to take off, you know?"
"You don't have to lie to me. You're not coming?"
"No, I am! I'm just, this is real. This is all happening now, man."
"Look, if you can't make it, I'll just set my phone on the stage so you can listen to it that way."
"That'll sound terrible."
"If you don't hear the set tonight I'll TP your life."
I was silent for a moment. He said so calmly. He was serious. Jake was always so damned serious. I heard a click and knew I was alone on the phone. Alone, staring up at about two dozen devil worshippers waiting for my blood. I started to say a quick prayer for strength when I saw a large stick in the bushes. I quickly stopped praying and grabbed the stick. "This is it. This is goddamned everything." I said to myself. "You sick bastards can't have me. Not tonight. Not on kickass music Sundays. Yeah. Music Sunday!" I repeated, hoping to remember that phrasing to tell Jake later. It was clever word ideas like that that'll get Jake back on a guys good side. Jake and his brother and the long one with darkish hair. They all freak out over shit like that.

Suddenly I ran. Not down and not away, but up, and toward the demon kids. Life felt like it had slipped into slow motion. This could of course be because I am not a fast runner, but I like to think that it slowed to savor this moment. Life itself, not just mine, but the deeper philosophical meaning of life had slowed down. All life on Earth was crawling for me. Waiting, watching this glorious moment as I ran up the hill into the Publix parking lot, with a stick in hand, a prayer in my heart and the intent of taking it all back. Taking back my car. My pride. My f-ing life, man!

I got up into the lot waving the stick over my head as I charged toward my car. A few of the rascals looked over and I could hear one of them saying, "Look, it's that nutjob." They didn't seem to be motivated to come after me so I slowed down, stopped waving the stick around. I became very cool, playing it off as if the stick was my car's key or something. I got up to the car, and pretended to be unlocking it witht he stick. "I don't know why they make these keys so big." I said, sort of throwing the comment away over my shoulder as if I was a friendly stranger who hadn't kicked one of them earlier. Before I knew it the tall grizzly faced one was only a few feet behind me. I scrambled for the real key in my pocket, gripping the stick tighter in my hand.
"Why'd you kick our friend, bro?"
"Who?"
"Tony. Why'd you kick Tony?"
"I don't know who that is."
He held up his arm and pointed to the dreaded one, sulking with a beer can in his hand.
"I didn't mean to."
"You kicked him twice."
"Which guy?"
He pointed again, only with more of his finger. Like it was growing in anger. Like it was an eighteen inch finger. Tony, palming the beer, gave me a questioning look on que with the finger pointing. I offered him a shrug, genuinely sorry, then looked back. The long faced bearded one and I stared at each other for a long time.

"GLADIATOR!" I yelled, then for no Godly reason swung the stick into his leg. He yelped, more so out of surprise then pain I think. He then regained his composure and punched me square in the eye. I fell back, my head hitting against my car door, setting off the alarm. The tall grizzly faced brute stepped back, looking down at me. My head rested on the pavement, looking up at stars to a chorus of long whining beeps and honks coming from my car.
"That's for kicking our friend, bro."
"I'm just kidding." I said, not knowing why really. He started back toward his group who was ultimately pretty silent. At least against the whirring hell that poured out of my car. I lifted up onto my elbows and blinked a couple times to make sure I hadn't been punched blind. Slowly, I got up to my feet, now empty handed and embarrassed. My car key had flown from my hand on the impact of the ground. I looked around for a moment, but my vision was silly. The thought occured to me to askfor help from one of the devil worshippers but I decided against it. Eventually I felt a lump under my shoe and saw that I had stepped on it. I picked up the key and unlocked my door. Once open. I reached in and disabled the alarm. I managed to avoid eye contact with everyone until I was in the car with the door shut. With the car started, I pulled into gear and slowly rolled out of the parking lot. In my rear-view mirror I could see the people making their wa out of the lot, and on with their night. My phone buzzed again. The screen said JAKE. I flipped it open and pressed it against my ear. "Hello." I said. He wasn't there. Not his voice, but the sound of a live show, guitars and bass, drums and a crackling voice coming through the speakers of a cell phone. I was missing it. Staring out my at a stop sign on Ringling I listened to a few bars of Jake's most famous song, "Dance Pickle Extreme." There was color showing up around my eye, and I knew I would have a shiner. I hung up the phone, dropping it in the passenger seat, and driving on.

There was a spot just outside the Mexican bar, so I took it. Inside the same table waited for me. I slid in to the booth and waited, tapping my fingers on the sticky surface of the table. In a moment, my girl, the sweet faced, heavy breasted one, came over. She nodded, recognizing me from twenty minutes ago. I leaned my head back trying to catch the light and pointed to my eye. "For your honor." I said. She smiled weakly. "A drink?" She asked. "Rum jangler please." I answered deciding to stay here tonight.

Book Review for "Johnny Tremain" from the perspective of a 17 year old valley girl.

Probably the greatest book ever written, by both man and child, woman and other writing entity; Johnny Tremain tells the story of a young genius who becomes a silversmith and burns the fucking hell out of his hand. He's always embarrassed by this sort of melty hand keeps it in his pockets or in his mother's pies and pie type dishes.
One day he meets a girl named Cilla, Priscilla for long, who loves him despite his sick melt-hand. Paul Bunyan or John Tubbers or whichever is the name of that early revolutionary explorer comes along riding on his horse one day, screaming about lobsters in coats and what not, alerting the town. Johnny Tremain sees the opportunity to finally use the sick curse God put on him by melting his hand to scare and/or kill the lobster coats.
At this point Cilla is ridiculously in love with him and they kiss and he promises to make America into something great where even one-handed, pony-tailed dainty's like himself can work for a local paper or some other mid-level position at some kind of printing house. Cilla does everything in her power not to totally melt from her obsessive love for Johnny, not unlike the way his hand melted in the beginning of the story to foreshadow this supreme moment with Priscilla, "Cilla."
After a long, juvenile make out session Johnny goes after the red lobster people waving his sickly paw around yelling something about a tea party or a cherry tree until the lobster guys are so mind fucked that they shoot themselves to death.
Always being an opportunist, John Tubbers, or Wally Revere or whoever his name was then came along and took credit for killing everyone and even said he invented tea and teeth and apples and that Cilla was his wife and all other sorts of new America type bullshit lies, most of which none of the towns people believed. Anyhow, long story short, Johnny got his job back at the paper and married Cilla cause she was pregnant or something which was not totally unusual at this time for a fourteen year old girl.
The book pretty much stops there except for a short epilogue about that crazy horse riding Paulie Reverendton, talking about how he ended up in some famous magazine cause some of his lying paid off. Then he became president for a while until he was assassinated by Johnny Tremain. An almost forgotten part of the book and American history. In any case the book sprays out an unwielding amount of boy drama and hot girl sort of descriptions about the towns folk to the point that any nine to nineteen year old would easily form a wicked boy crush on both Johnny, Tubbers and Cilla, the later being a girl-crush. Read it. You won't be disappointed.

Diving head first into excitement

Lately I've been diving head first into excitement. Just lappin' it up for tomorrow may never die. Sometimes I get so excited I say things that don't belong in human's ears--words that haven't even been invented yet. Like solarcosmiccandyfartgun and telefonuck, for when you talk too much to a robot.

People have been reprimanding me for calling ladies "toots-mobile" or honking at kids and saying the days of the week backwards and so on. They should be flattered. I'm just trying to believe in joy.

I've been getting really natural at noticing things. There's a lot to learn from noticing. The other day my friend told me he wanted to live in the sewer. I told him that wasn't true. I told him it would smell too much stink grenade. But just so I didn't come across as a mind trap I went down to check it out for myself. I found a man who looked like a pencil with a raisin head. His clothes were rag sponge. His job was to scrub magic marker off a magic sign. I noticed how hard he worked and how he didn't believe in smiles or vanilla sweets. I asked him if he ever felt like his life was harder off than mine. He said sometimes it was, but other times, it wasn't so bad, like when he got a good look at a nice toots-mobile. I still think about that old pencil neck. He might be dead now.

I rode a train that day. I noticed how some people can't get enough hair, and other's have too much. There was one man next to me who had too much. His face was like an evolution frog with legs and bristle mouth. His eye browsers were tree parts and he smelled like a barber's forest. Our stomach's were almost touching cause the silver bullet was full of traffic. He wore a glove on his right hand. It was clear, but the brown stuff in it was not. I didn't ask him about it. I had felt enough sympo-empathetical for one day.

Tonight I got off from a random jamboree at 4am, which is earlier than usual. As I rode home in a limo time machine I thought about everything that's ever happened in the world, and looked at the moon hang between the trees. When I squinted the days ran together and the future passed by, sleepy like the wind. I pretended to be in love and asked the driver to play something classical. She scrolled the knob, stopping at every point, asking, "this?" "this?" "this?" then she found it and it found me and we embraced on the skyway bridge, before slipping into the tunnel of rain.

It felt good to be such a hot shot of miracles. Sometimes when I tell strays about my life they don't believe me.

Current Life Summary

Sometimes my dear people will write me or leave me conspicuous voice messages asking questions about my life or what i'm wearing. Sometimes these brain wobblers ask how it is to be in Sarasota. I rarely return these questions because I am too busy being excellent, and often can't find the time to waste on other's bullshit. But, because my parents think i might be dead and my brother wants to know how much longer he'll have to be feeding my cat goldfish i will give you an update. Instead of writing anything original i'll just copy and paste a letter I wrote to one of my real friends. My little brother, Brian. He may be offended that i would repost something that was private between us, but i don't have time to write something new, or time for his feelings. Besides, he is dead to me.

Dear Brian,
My phone is gone. it rolled away in a strange car, or fell into a gutter hole. Maybe it just splashed on the sidewalk and a mormon bear carried it off to jewville. I'm not sure. All i know is i went to buy a charger for my second rate phone today so I could talk to my priest and a scraggly bat sold me one for ten dollars in a store that smelled like a porn closet. I made him test it, cause i was clever and sheen. I paid the cardinal fool and drank a meatball sub on my way home.

At my home where i'm resting between actions and cuts i plugged in my new battery juicer. It doesn't work. It doesn't charge. It just turns your phone on. That scraggly bat was a rat dealer. A man with confusers fingers.

After i talked to you on the phone i got the flu. I woke up in the morning and wished I had been born an ice cube, and could melt into some lemonade or on a car hood. The thing about working a 9-5er is, you can't take the day off just because your brain is teasing witch diseases and asking for a smack house. I was drinking dayquill and korean blood mixers. I put white chalk homeopathic magic under my tongue and prayed in mathematics. This morning i was a little better, but i still missed my phone, and wanted a new one. Something with two cameras or a cross bow.

When I get back to Las Vegas i'll be ready to smear my face in the sand pits along the moat village. I'll hug and jangle everybody until their insides feel hairy and peculiar. I'll put my mouth on peoples mouths and celebrate over pizza and alcoholic water drinks. It's good that you're fit and shading--that you're a muslim christian. I'm glad you're really really good and expect you to be finer still when i come back west. I imagine we'll all have mustaches when the days turn around again. Keep on your way. Climbing the harder hills. I'll be back by October.

Love and madness,
J.T.

Might not help you understand anything at all really, but it should. you know it's hard to explain your life when it looks like this:

Wooing and House Parties

Anytime I go to a party, especially a house party, I have great expectations. I have ideas. I'm on I-75 so in the time it takes to get from I-75 to Bee Ridge I've already worked out all the dialogue that will be spoken between myself and my future bride. She'll be wearing tennis shoes while everyone else wears heels. Her dress will look like a burlap sack and I'll wonder if she's washed her hair--though she will smell quite wonderful. Like squirrels on a summer night. Lily's and pomegranates, or snow. She'll smell like snow. And wild berry's. It might be a special lotion, I don't know. Her fingernails will be her own and her eyes will drift around, never settling, never sending messages. I hate codes. I never joined the navy. Everything will be perfect. The way she'll dip her head and put her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the outburst of laughter I've caused her with another one of my brilliant digs at "things". What a girl. Doe eyes and crooked teeth. My angel.

When I arrive I soak in the size and sterility of the house. Everythings white. Chairs have yet to be broken in. Virgin beds and bath tubs. Windows lining the walls. No one dares sit down. People mill. Drinks are drunk. Cigarettes smoked. I talk to people I know, knowing in mere moments I'll stumble upon true love. This is where it happens. Here the levy breaks and my heart floods open. Choirs will sing. Poets will wax. As I go on, with my dear friend Punchy, we discuss metaphysics and loneliness in the midst of crowds. Unrelated. Unregenerate. We joke about dancing, then get a refill.

I realize, and quickly tell Punch that she isn't coming to me. Wooing is a mans work. I bid him goodbye for a moment and turn to the crowd of flesh and booze. I make my rounds, circling the large room, looking for "the one." Certainly she's here. Of course. Makes sense. I want her to be. She will be. There she is. A bag made out of an old stuffed bear. Her hair is a disaster. She's small but balanced. Her eyes are confusing and glorious. Oh Punchy, if you had only had the courage that I have. Here I go while you stand alone sucking on your beer. My pathetic friend I've ventured out into this world, this house party. While you, wait for your dreams. Oh no my beloved. A man must act.

"You changed your hair."
"Whaaat?" She turns.
"Your hair, it's magnificent."
"Howww did you knoww I chaanged it?"
"I've been spying on you."
"Whaaaat?"
"I'm joking, lets be friends."
"Okkaay. I like that."
My God this girls drunk as hell. I think about punching her in the forehead, but decide maybe still, that love is to be found.
"What's your name?" I ask her.
"Jasmine."
"Aladdin." I extend my hand.
"Nist to meet youuu Allen. I can't find my friendsss."
"I'll help you. What do they look like?"
"They look like people. They're people. Geez. I'm not out, hanging out, with like, some zoo monkey animals, I'm people with people. What did you say you were again?"
"Umm, Aladdin?"
"There she is! KERRY! FUCK YOU! I LOVE YOU!" Jasmine and Kerry hug each other for a little bit, then I punched them both in the forehead and walked back to Punchy. We talk about fastballs and sartre. After a while I went home and thought about myself.

He died in Venice

I was wandering around downton Venice the other day. I came to a set of stairs leading toward a bridge. I headed towards the steps. There was a murmur and and I saw four policemen standing at the bottom of the stairs. At their feet, and the bottom of the steps was a dead man.

He looked as if he'd been homeless and possibly blind as he had one of those red and white walking sticks. Two police filled out papers as a third one--a very large, serious-faced woman directed us to step over him one person at a time. I stepped over his body and walked up the stairs.

I thought about the dead man as I walked down Venice Ave. I wondered if perhaps maybe he wasn't quite dead, but just passed out. They didn't seem to be trying to save him though, so I figured he really must have already died.

A few moments later I went into the Subway food chain and ordered a meatball sub. I had started to feel quite nice, and was in an overall happy mood. I flirted with the middle-aged, middle-eastern counter woman while she made the sub. She kept smiling and sort of rolling her eyes. The store owner was her husband. He wore a turban.

When I got home I ate the sandwich. It made me feel terrible and I decided to try to stop eating terrible shit from fast-food chains. I thought again of the dead man and thought he probably ate alot of this shit himself. I thought he probably didn't have any friends, and probably no one was too sad about him dying. I'm sure at one point he was young, and lived with his parents or some older people and had probably at least once talked about wanting to be a cowboy or rocket man. I felt pretty awful again, and figured if no one was going to cry for him then I would. I went into my room and sat down and pictured him lying there under the steps. I waited for the tears to come but they didn't. I thought about him a little more, and tried to encourage more thoughts of him as an ambitious youth but still I couldn't cry. Eventually I decided it was none of my business anyhow, and plenty of people are dying all over the place. I just don't have to see them or step over them. I figured I can't go around crying about all of them so I probably shouldn't sit here much longer trying to cry for this guy.

After a moment I went on with my day, returning phone calls and so on.

I'm going 3rd person, so fuck you! I'm kidding you're great!

J.T. wants to be liked by you. J.T. wants to make people laugh and as he walks away, he wants to hear you say, "That J.T., that son of a bitch said it! He really just laid it out tonight!" J.T. likes to think that people admire him for his ability to be funny and sensitive. He's a great listener and he'll love you, even if only in a fictional sense, or somehow fleeting and without obligation or commitment. J.T. likes to believe he is one with Arturo Bandini, Sam Fowler, Henry Chinaski and Huckleberry Finn. A wandering soul who is looked at by his piers as an almost mythological character. He would like to think that though some of his habits are self-destructive and though he rarely uses sunscreen while playing tennis, that people will look at these traits as romantic and positive in a sort of "young and fun, screw you sick and dying world!" way. J.T. likes to project the image of a wise old sea captain with a gymnast's shoulders and gunslinger's flair. And at the end of J.T.'s potentially long and successful life, he would like to be able to hear his eulogy at his funeral, not only because he will have written it, but because he will pop out of the coffin and vomit organic fruits and spices onto the floor, if only to put a cap on what will have been one of the most daring, beautiful lives ever lived...

The egg and the oval shaped man.

This is important because the shape of the man and make up of his face were (at least to me) telling of his plight. His body was round all over, not unlike an egg with a thinly gray-bearded grape on top. The grape, being the egg and oval shaped man's head, found all of its features pushed together in the middle of his face. All senses operating together. His nose could no doubt smell his lips, which I am inclined to believe could taste his nose while his eyes could easily see the marriage of the two. His ears though were where they belong, that being on either side of the grape. The egg (his body) was garnished in a faded blue button up, un-buttoned, with a matching faded blue T-shirt underneath. His pants were large .. even too large for his 300-some-pound figure. I never did get his name, but for the story, and because I think it probably truly was his name, we'll call the man Cobwell. Cobwell sat in the corner of the Jack In The Box with the usual vagrant plastic bags and various homeless possessions. Occasionally Cob would get up, shaking his head gently with a smile of varying length, whisper consistently to himself, while walking over to other tables, no doubt checking to see if recent patrons had left pieces of Patty Melts or fragments of fries behind. He found an unfinished beverage at one point, and happily returned to his seat, where he drank quickly while watching the current goings on of the said fast food chain. The pure insanity that flickered in his ocean colored eyes brought with it an unsettling peacefulness and calm.

I sat at a table yards down from Cobwell, my back to him, but with enough distance between us where I could glance back without being obvious. There were many vagrants in the place, all with differing degrees of true madness showing in their eyes. The silence of the room, coupled with the inhabitants, gave me a strange feeling of a metaphysical randomness. All of humanity suddenly seemed to be the cause of a violent collision where for century's we had been fighting and clawing to make sense and find peace. And with all the truth and beauty that seemed at our fingertips, we were instead found dumb and lost in a Jack In The Box on Sunset. I tried like all men in a crisis of meaning to think about myself instead. If I could be truly selfish for a moment and focus on the good and bad things in my life and daydream about love and wonder what kind of shirt I should like to buy I may be able to avoid this oppressive notion of being without purpose. But still it crept in. And with it a cloud floated over me thundering down thoughts of what then shall one do if his existence truly does not matter. By this time as I began to embrace my self pity and felt a welling up inside of emotion that felt like what is described by those who have nervous breakdowns in restaurants, I noticed Cobwell was behind me at the trash can. I glanced at his reflection in the window. As he rummaged through the waste his mouth moved in silence. Soundless words whispered into the meaningless air around us. Then for one short sentence his speech came with volume. ..

It's going to be all right...

On that, he turned and went back to his table, still shaking his head softly, frowning, then smiling. He seemed to know something I didn..t. Sure, he could have been babbling on about an axe murder he committed in one of his fullest moments of nutso bravado, repeating what could be the only six words he's ever said to try and bury the guilt of having eaten children and blown up a tree or something. But I don..t think so. He was talking to me. I sat and stared at my hardly eaten hamburger. I decided to leave. I refilled my soda, leaving my food on the table. As I started back towards it, to discard it, I glanced and saw Cobwell looking at me, then the food. He smiled sheepishly, and pretended the moment didn..t happen. Understanding his silence I walked past the table, leaving my food. I felt bad for not taking care of my garbage and also wasn..t about to offer the man a half eaten sandwich lest he be offended at the notion he would dare eat another mans trash. So, I left it open, and exited the building. As I walked into the parking lot I turned and looked into the Jack In The Box and saw what I had assumed. Cobwell was retreating from my table with the tray of food on his way back to his table. His little smile showing, his head moving in a quiet nod. Suddenly everything had meaning. There was nothing random to the world. It wasn't possible. There has yet to be a coincidence in my life, and it felt affirmed by the egg and oval shaped man. We had shared a dinner, and continued on in life. I had been placed there in that moment for him, and he was in his corner booth, perhaps for me. As I walked down the street the air felt clean and tasted sweet. My feet moved quickly as if I was racing now optimistically towards truth and beauty. Everything was going to be all right.

About thirty minutes later I felt like I was going to throw up because Jack In The Box is terrible shit.

In the time of me.

I'm realizing there are many signifigant moments in my life I can no longer remember. Moments at one time that had a lot to do with who I am now. This is alarming. My hope is that there have been so many moments in the recent years that are so incredibly wonderful they can only eclipse the old memories otherwise my brain would explode from 'moment overdrive.' I just saw a picture on my friends page of myself holding a baby alligator by its tail on a fishing trip. I remember certain things from the trip but do not at all remember holding an alligator. All I know is my hair is thinner than it was then and at some point on that trip or perhaps the one the year before, I was 'feeling' a lot. Not touching mind you, but feeling. 

 Now I am taking in new memories, new moments in my life that will also be forgotten until I'm an old man and my stories stem from thoughts as abstract and slightly fictional as the things I write. Then, I'll die, and the people I leave will remember me for a while, then they'll die and their children will have maybe heard of me, but never have met me and then they'll pass on and I'll only be a branch on a family tree. Not that this is news. This isn't the first time I've realized life is moving and will eventually pass over me, leaving me underground. It's just one of those strange experiences where when you leave wherever you were the night before you feel like you should cry on your walk home, only to make the night more memorable. Something to stake the thought into your subconcious lest it leave with the rest of your youth. I will grow old, I will grow bald, and I will sag. I'm relegated and at peace with this truth. But I don't want to forget anything else. I don't want to forget the alligator in my hands. I don't want to forget wanting a rat-tail because Brian Perona had one. I suppose the more the special moments of life start to fade from my mind the more I desire a longer moment. Something lasting and shared. Not a heavenly eternity, but something shared--something where two people are reminding each other of this or that. "Do you remember when..." and so on. Hopefully the answer being yes. if not, what was the signifigance of the moment ever existing, and in that case, if we dare go so far; what was the signifigance of my existing in the first place. 

 There once was a man who at age 21 baked bagels for strangers. He smoked a pipe and drank his beers and died when he was 91. I baked bagels when I was 21 too. I hope if I live to be 91 I can remember that. Or at least that there will be someone there to remind me.