why do my thoughts continually hide from me? what are they….SCARED?

but before i go there, i went here;

for a dog, beach-time in a national park, at least here at gateway, is over on the ides of march and begins again in mid-september. i may have mentioned this, maybe i didn’t.
i figured i could let maxx run on the beach under the cover of greyness, wind and rain.
i brought a ball and threw it in the ocean. maxx went in and took a bath.

the surf was totally up, dude.
i’ll be turning fifty-six pretty soon and have spent virtually all my life on the east coast, so please take the two previous statements in the spirit they were meant.
re-read them with weary sarcasm.
i don’t hate the west coast, i just don’t like the west coast.
i went to jail in el segundo and smoked crack with a bunch of drunk mexicans when we were shipped to LA county for arraignment.
i was a drunk gringo.
the reason i smoked crack, not that i had planned to, mind you, was because i had the matches.
it was 1989.
i well knew how terrible crack was, but as bad as crack was, LA jail was a little worse.
this is not why i don’t like the west coast, either.
maybe it’s the beach boys.
maybe it’s as baseless as any other prejudice.
maybe i’m supposed to. maybe i got information somewhere from someone and it’s as simple as rooting against someone, somewhere for whatever reason. that’s politics.
maybe my dealings with a small number of left coasters scarred me forever.
maybe the LA version of “kind insincerity” drives my bullshit detector whacky.
maybe i am angry that martin landau and tim burton haven’t given me props for bringing ed wood to the cultural forefront in 1984.
after all, what californian film snob would want to give credit to a couple of new yorkers for a hollywood movie story?
maybe i haven’t been there long enough to know.
i will search my mind for answers to that question while it forages for the subjects that were in my head on the drive out there yesterday.
i had so much to write about.
i forgot to bring my little fat pad.
i had poems and wickedly-turned phrases.
i was going to be smart, i just know it.
reporting on my meeting with the lizards was going to be secondary but instead, i’m clearing cobwebs to hack-out old LA spew about wearing chain-loaded, black snakeskin boots and reliving acidly-dark sunny-california moments.
……and this was when things were “good.”
i gotta get out of LA even if it’s just in my mind….so, where was i?

was i going to try to venture an opinion about the economy?
probably not. i’m out of opinions.
did i wander away, acknowledging the first greens of spring?

and eventually end up here?;

only to get the same message once i got to the fine-print?;

i would return to the parking lot, walking along the road that runs parallel to the beach.
the same road that the lizard who ate ayn rand passed me on a while back and even bernie madoff’s son, the day he was driving toward his big surprise.
maxx was safely re-connected to the leash.
i decided to walk back with my eyes closed.
i kept to the side, just in case the lizards (or anyone else) were busy and maxx was tired enough to mosey slowly ahead of me. i began to count my steps while i listened to the ocean. it was a loud, busy ocean. there was a lot of work going on there. chances are, a few more tides like this and there’s a chance of a big tire resurrection. i checked, when we were on the beach.
i think i heard a car go puttering by my as we walked.
the road back would not change things. i listened to the ocean. i counted steps.
i remembered riding my 20-inch royce union, three-speed V-bar banana-seat bike around in circles on the blacktop softball field of Kelly Park, a few blocks from where i lived.
it was wintertime and i was alone. i rolled around lazily and closed my eyes and drifted peacefully, until i crashed into the park bench, flew over the handlebars and into the cement form that the wooden slats were bolted into.
that’s the part that got me in the nuts.
i opened my eyes and stopped counting. everything was ok, except i was just a little rattled. i wondered if i was walking across the street on january 22, 1962 with my eyes closed looking for the same sense of peace and if it was something that people did.
when i got to the parking lot, there was a little boxy car that looked like an old honda civic that was painted british racing green, parked at the far corner of the lot, fairly close to that chimney in the dirt i told you about.
i wasn’t going to garnering any new insights today.
that was my plan.
that eduardo cianelli guy wasn’t in that car, i would have known.
i drove home and there wes a drum set being carried into the REHAB that was next door to me for the past ten years. they lost their funding after loads of years being there.
this is what was moving in;


About stephen trimboli

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