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 July 22 Walking route 139 with Rocky, wandering bumfuck industrial park south
of Boston: Randolph. Freaked out local when we ask for a ride. Winner's
Circle = the new roadside trash, says Rocky = lottery tickets! Of all
the gishpoints (?) in all the world we meet up here, at rick's Cafe, some
lukewarm - cassablanca decor theme restaurant in Randolph, MA, bla, bla,
bla, Rocky and Ricky together! Cejzih (?), meeting sporadically and spontaineously
in the friendly skies of the shoe-string vagabond jet set elite: now in
Boston, three months ago in houston, a month before that in New Orleans,
San Francisco before last October then 2 close encounters almost meeing
in Joshua Tree last month, but which didn't happen due tothe all-consumeing
nature of hauling children along for the ride. Rocky and I eat shord sandwiches.
What the fuck is a shrod, ricky? Fish and chips essentially, good food
but not cheep but you pay and pay and pay for those wild-hair late night
runs to downtown Boston sushi bars for hot saki and Sapporo and Hakeo
(sp), tiny orange flying fish eggs that when popped between the front
teeth emit the most delicate, subtile explosion of taste rolls metyphonic
roe, says this popping burst of taste, its secret lpeasure is why we like
drinking tears. You pay when you're up til 2 and sleeping til 10 and the
cell phone jangles you out of dreamland with monsyllable rendition of
the William Tell Overture and it Dan on the other end of the wireless
wand of magic chit-chat and its his second wake-up call because today
IS THE DAY -- got to go to maine again, gothergothoct suite a Dan must
work tomorrow and its a six hour haul to drop me off and set me up again
in the boonies for the new gig the zoootitty cabin lift and level job
I bid on when the work at danny's dried up and left me with ten vacant
days in Maine until my return light to LA on the 30th. You pay because
my 10am. The damn Courtyard Marriot breakfast kitchen is closed and there
ain't fucking to eat or ways to get there way down here in South nowhere,
MA. So you hoof it to the nearest hash house breakfast joint but give
up halfway in the humid heat and all that lottery ticket trash like some
roadside ticker taper parrade for all the roadside penny-ante big win
dreamers and losers of the new world order, the order of the corporate
boat. The hollow forest 'round the sinking weber raid table of consumer
trash. And you wind up here at Rick's Cafe, full circle, full-o-beans,
full of fish and chips and Rocky-Rocky stillness and going MMMM/MMM! at
the busty blond waitress and bright upstarts as any twinkie or cupcake
Hostess what not. We pay for our shrod. Shrod of tummy pleasing morning
maintenance girls and girl and xxxxx to Rocky's hotel and up he runs to
get me after books for Justin and Gram, me waiting in the taxi enduring
that crazy forever rambling disertation on the square root of the triangulated
distanc between the hotel, the commuter rail station and the transit station,
all because I made the mistake of asking him which was closer and I'll
go to my grave NEVER knowing the answer, no, just pay and pay so darn
camel's Rock withthe books and autographs 'em for me, the cab's roof his
desktop, and tip tap boom bada it's bye for now, and to another episode
of the Rock ad Ricky show, and as the cab wisks me away toward Boston,
Rock will prepare his xxx for another day filming Harvard the Phone Car
guy, another wierd day in the fasst and credit card maxxed life of Harrod
Blank, filmaker, photographer, writer, artist, promoter and secret agent
man! Me? I'm at the transit now scribbling away and psychcally fending
off a dozen gawkers, oer the shoulder observers o this writers strange
and side obsession not often aware, likely that they are seeing it the
first forward back to the future now and forever lilving live action moment
out of their every English Literature college text. The writer at work,
Faulkner, Hemmingway, F. Scott Fitz -baby, Bukowski, and so on and so
on. The cabbie rooked me for $20 to take me five miles, the transit costs
$2 to take me half way across the friggin state. Shortly it'll be round
at Old Grove Station in Melrose, to hop in the minivan and another long
haul to xxxxx with Dan. If I were a sculptor but their zgzzi4 us. I'd
marry one tho' ib special one. Of only I could find the energy ovike on
the pristing dream full-steam ahead tolling road dog writers rocket tothe
blue moon cool little cafe nook reader which is you. -- RSM
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