In my late teens I had a friend that we called Leaf. I honestly don't know if that’s how he spelled it or not. I never wrote his name in all the years we were close. That's sometimes what it's like to be a teenage boy. The only thing that mattered was the right now or possibly that night. I wasn't keeping track of anything and we didn't have smartphones then. Leaf was a trip. He had a maroon car, something like a Monte Carlo or something. He worked for a flooring store before I even knew what linoleum was. He also smoked like 2 packs of unfiltered camels a day that I constantly ridiculed him for even though my parliament lights burned quicker.

            Remember those parliament lights with the recessed filters. They seemed so futuristic and cool when I smoked. That stiff paper pursed between your lips felt secure while the old filtered cigarettes were wet and mushy, like baby food carrots dribbling down your chin. Not so with the parliament lights. This time period also included the smoking tricks we would try to pull off. Flipping the cigarette into your mouth with either hand, sometimes even lit. Rolling the lit cig inside your mouth to hide it and then flipping it back out again. Oh and the smoke rings. 

Leaf and I had too many adventures to name but yesterday I recalled one that made me miss him something fierce. The first time I travelled to Colorado I went with Leaf in his purple Monte Carlo. We had some excellent weed and were determined to take it with us to smoke with our hosts during the visit. This was back in the day when an ounce of weed was a guaranteed trip to jail if found in your car or on “your person.” I remember getting high and coming up with all these great ideas on how we would transport it over so many state lines. We would build a stash spot into the underside of the dash or open the door frame up and slip it between the frames. We eventually settled on a canister that was designed to seal up with tennis balls inside and keep them fresh and bouncy. Perfect. We then strapped the weed holder to the undercarriage of the car and we were ready to roll.

            This held extremely well and even though we had inclement weather, rain and snow and ice on the roads, when we got to Durango the canister was still in place. I was so excited when we got it off the car’s body still freezing and now completely filthy on the surface. Unfortunately while the inside remained immune to the outside elements the inside world of the damn tennis ball holder had turned into a humid swamp. The greens of the herb now moldy with a patchy white sickness that stuck like splattered dry paint and resisted removal much the same. I’m sure our friends chuckled and lorded their ideas of how to travel with marijuana, but I don’t remember them. I simply remember how it felt to have lost this precious weed and the money we had spent on it. Tennis ball canister, tape, screws, metal perforated hanging strap and all. Fucking shit.

            Sure, we tried to smoke some of it but our lot was elitist and considered it beneath them when so many other options existed that weren’t from a state that everyone was running away from. This was just another experience in life that reminded me you can never really hold on to anything for too long and trying usually just leads to grief. I think of Leaf often still. He left me out west and to this day I have never seen him again. I know I shouldn’t be hanging on but I do. Supposedly he moved to Texas, got married and maybe has kids. I bet he still smokes though.

  Yesterday I went to the art institute with Turbo. We recently bought year long passes because the price wasn't much more than it cost to get into the exhibit we wanted to see at the time. The idea today was that we would spend thirty or forty minutes there and write one poem each about a piece of work we found interesting. I think the time frame is key. There is nothing I disdain more than the plan to spend "the day" at a museum. I can't handle going from work to work trying to get into each one and make my own sense of things. It's like going through a menu line by line because you thought you were hungry but nothing looks good. More of a punishment for sitting down at a table. And making the staff go through the motions for an ungrateful customer, well.
  With the quick trip theory I can wander quickly from room to room and only dive in on things that catch my eye. I can read the about paragraphs without fading and feel like I am actually absorbing some truth or at least a glimpse of something unique, something outside my bubble.
  I had smoked a joint and then eaten some lunch so I wasn't all wound up by the time we arrived and I started really catching the flow of the place. If there were people in one room I would quietly and briskly walk through, instead searching for an empty room where others might have the same idea as me.
  I found my art piece to write a poem about and proceeded to scratch it out on my phones notes. Turbo had her lined notebook but I didn't. Mine was a sculpture and what impressed me most about it was the view from directly behind it. The sculpture was a lady, I guess, holding a baby. Honestly I never checked it out from the front and only know this much because T pointed it out during our drive home conversation in which she also explained herself for saying at the time, thoughtfully, "you have a weird sense of humor and I can see why some people don't get it."
  From the back you couldn't tell much about the lady and child though. It looked more like an amoeba or a flatulent pasta star drowning in cheap red sauce that some parent would throw in front of a toddler at lunch. I loved it. It seemed so extreme and perfect up front but blank and open from another view.
  I don't have a copy of Tracy's poem and maybe she wouldn't want me posting it anyways. I'll ask later. Here's mine to hold you over.

The triple boob looks chilly from the back
Or dead
The top boob so hairy and scarred
Pale
And lumpy with one ringing bud on top
How many fools have you summoned
No cares are yours
Alone

reality flip
motherfuckers are lyin'
it is what it is

Yeahp, yes. I do? Well, that's just how I answer. No. She's not here. I understand. Mmm. Some sort of concert. That's what I said. No. I guess. I guess. They called it heavy metal woodstock. I know. Classic rock is dead. Yes. Yes. YES I heard you. And buried.

  I remember a weekend I spent in Naples with Sean Connery. We had been drinking Grappa for hours on some extravagant sailboat in one of those fucking canals while naming fish for some scientific journal. It was all very posh, except I kept farting this whistle noise. Sean would yell at me that I was scaring the fish and we would be out here another week if I couldn't change my tone. The real problem was I couldn't understand his slurring talk and thought he wanted a fight. Needless to say thats how the bass got its title.

  We've had a rough couple of Sundays. They are usually the one day each week that we try to put everything serious down and attempt to cook, relax and have non-rushed sex. What could go wrong, really. Only takes a couple things it turns out.
  Relaxing can be tough. If you've ever sat for meditation or yoga and felt the muscles stiffen around your neck or your shoulder blades crack when you try to roll them back you know this. The mind screams fuck this and onto the next and then you notice your hands are balled up and sweaty.
  I don't even remember the first problem. Probably an argument over whether she bought eggs or I opened the curtains while we were still in our robes. We each have these soft fuzzy robes. Mine is pastel blue and hers pastel pink. They are both perfect and revoltingly gendered. Truth is the colors don't matter to us at all, until I open the curtains too fucking early and the world notices and gets all judgy the way the world does. Ya know? I know. It's for the best.
  We walked out of the gym Saturday morning. Well, Turbo walked. I hobbled as I do on most leg days. My thighs and knees feeling like they could buckle at any moment. I can't feel my calves which is reassuring, sorta. I wonder each time why I do this to myself and then remember that adding strength training to my routine helps keep me from falling over my own feet as I am so prone to do. I also wonder at this point if I were to go down could I actually get myself back up? This incites panic and if I didn't appear to have a rigid enough gait now I look like I'm crossing the lot on two polished hammers, terrified. As we stood at my unlocked doors she clicked the clicker for her car. We had a little laugh at this point. "This is my car," I said "your shit doesn't work here." That was the last time she saw her keys. No one noticed until Sunday morning they were missing.

Over the last five years I have been driving to my job about 23 miles away. It usually takes me thirty minutes and I generally enjoy it. I have listened to audio books, iTunes, the radio and sometimes just the silence. I know every lane I need to be in on my route and relish keeping to them. It's this game I have always played on the highway. I used to have a fast car and didn't mind slowing down or speeding up. The fast car had a manual transmission and I really felt like I was controlling something. What? I don't know. But something. I would speed ALL the time and still had great gas mileage. Gas mileage becomes very important when you drive a lot, maybe, at least for me. It's something I pay attention to and explain to people when they say " Oh, you spend an hour in your car each workday! Really, an hour." and then they sigh and look at me with pity in their eyes.  That's when I hit them with my mileage numbers. I say "listen, you don't understand. Im getting great mileage. I'm talking in the mid 40's and I don't have any of that electric shit. I'm talking gasoline." They hate it and that's fine by me because I hate them. It's like when you work in retail during the holidays and people that don't tell you how terrible it must be. Fuck you.
So now I drive a slow car and in order to keep my numbers up I do the speed limit. Wow. Nothing pisses people off more than driving the speed limit. I never need to be in any fast lanes so I stick to the parts I need and drive right at the limit. 45 in a 45. 55 in a 55 and 65 in a 65. It feels very professional. My favorite is when people that speed have to get over to the slow lane to exit or transfer highways and they end up behind me. They have to slow way down behind my car and I can see them in my mirror just dying. It really kills them and I absolutely love it. Watching people freak the fuck out in their cars is like yoga or meditation to me. I find it very calming. Not that I don't have some road rage also, I mean, people can do some dumb shit and it is really dangerous at times but I never carry that anger for long and so it's okay. I think.

Today on Dayton.com under the photo galleries heading they had this ridiculous link. PHOTOS: Notable Deaths 2018. It sounds so funny to me and I'm not sure why. I clicked on the link and looked at most of the photos before they stopped loading on my computer. I don't really know who most of them are and the few I do I can't say I really miss them. It isn't to be rude its just that they are exactly the opposite of notable. At least to me.

In other news my twitter followers are dropping like flies. I had 82 and am now down to 76. Most of them are either not real people, organizations that are active once per year or friends that created accounts and never log in. It still hurts though. I thought I would be good at twitter but it's so hard. All I do is retweet so it's my own fault. The other day I posted one word. Bicycle. Who the hell would follow for that any way?

I had another encounter at the gym this morning. One of the older white haired guys that all look the same was talking across the floor mat area to his buddy, thats what he kept calling him, buddy, about a sports team draft selection. I politely asked if I could use the space between them. It's a small area and there is really no place else to go. The talker said "No. Not here buddy. This space is reserved" and laughed while I lay my mat down in the space. It was so obvious he was joking that when he later sought me out and apologized for his humor I wasn't sure how to respond. If I joked back would he take me seriously? I said "no worries, buddy" like ten times. Each time I got a little louder.  I hope he was listening and considers me his buddy now. The gym can get so lonely with all the staring and no follow through.

Yesterday my friend told me that he used to love David Sedaris but not anymore. He said Sedaris remembers just too much detail from his childhood and the writing becomes unbelievable. "I guess it's just creative writing and it shouldn't matter" he says. I'd be lying if I said I didn't get it. I still love them both though. I've been bloated for two days.

I drove by some silver and black balloons on the highway today. They were tangled up in the brush and looked so depressing and trashy still inflated. I love driving. I imagined they had blown away from some turning 50 over the hill party when during the happy birthday announcement the victim had a stroke or a heart attack. The person holding the balloons would panic, I'm sure, and let them go. I don't know why I think like this. Maybe its the cloudy end of winter thats got me down. I'd hate to think that someone would have tied them to their car though. And then gotten on the highway? How stupid.