Sunday, August 23, 2009

WEEK 1 - 1% of a 99% True Story

The only way to catch up on my blog is to nutshell this mug, so, here goes, jibberish from my journey in no particular order...

There is corn in every direction, and huge green trees beyond the corn. A cell tower and a bridge make there way beside Blondie and I, and leave soon thereafter. 'Blondie' is my kickass black Ford. I'm heading through Ohio looking at everything but the road. Hi Toledo, bye Toledo. Hi Lake Erie. You really are eerie; dark and calm and fearless. I eat my lunch on the black sunny shore aside a giant solar powered windmill which spins in silence. It's as tall as a redwood, and seems to be an old friend from another life. I know I will never forget this moment so long as I live. On deck, Cleveland; The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is sadly lame, but street dogs dressed in yellow kraut and purple onions rock like Eddie Van Halen 1984! (Side note: Dude! when I'm doing something wrong tell me I'm doing something wrong! Don't put me to sleep like it's the last two minutes of fucking yoga. This shit is serious! I'm referring to the sound my car makes when you mistakenly leave the headlights on. It sounds like a fucking soft breeze raining feathers, and I don't even realize what's going on! C'mon Ford! Think annoyingly obnoxious when you want to get someone's attention.) Roadside corn $2.50, organic zukes $1, handful of cherries "FREE". I consider stopping to ask what the F a zuke is, but then I remember I'm a world traveler and that shit ain't cool. I look it up on my Blackberry and find out it's a God damn dog biscuit. I then consider going back to again ask what the F a zuke is. I'm briefly in Erie, PA where I pass a family standing beneath an old white dirty porch, holding hands and saying a prayer. I wonder for a second if their dog is praying for a zuke. Down the road, or somewhere behind me is the town of Verona, the city of Cezenovia, Chittenango, Morrisville, DeRyter, and about 423 towns ending in 'ville, my personal favorite being painesville, which I dodged. I stare at the rusted barbed wire that's fencing off a herd of cows for about a mile, and then remember to look back at the road. I do this same thing through the entire state of New Hampshire. I see an old truck kicking up a trail of dust on a dirt road beside my back road and I wonder if my Grandfather (who I never met) would be proud of me. I've heard many times that he and I were similar. I think he would hi-fucking-five me, bear hug me, scruff my hair, and tell me, "Well done m'boy! Well done!" ....swamp land. Montezuma Wildlife Refuge. The site of old Eerie Canal Loch. A road that takes me through peaks and valleys, and to a beautiful lake in NY called Skaneateles (pronounced SkinnyAtlas). A cow. Another cow. A group of cows laying down. Cows drinking from a trough. Black cows. White cows. Black and white cows. Brown cows. Calico cows. A cheeseburger in Woodstock.

Quite possibly the highlight thus far was a three minute conversation I had with a 6 y.o. girl on the back roads of NY, a girl who I'm sure to marry in another 20 years or so. I pulled off in Morrisville to take a picture of an old sign that read Morrissville Motor Lodge, which was a business that looked to fix tractors and heavy machinery. Before I could take the photo, a scrubby little muppet of a person appeared right at my window and took up the entire frame. She was maybe 7 years old, and began talking before I even saw her. "Are you lookin' for my Grandpa? He's in the office. My Dad's out hunting, he won't be back for a while, what are you doing here, why is your camera blue, I have a dog, look at my scabs, are you funny......and on, and on, and on.....why is there a window on your roof, it might rain tomorrow,....." about 3 minutes later she finally ran out of breath and tackled said dog, again asking, "what are you doing here," I returned with, "I'm taking a picture of your Grandfather's sign." She politely moved aside and let me take my photo. She was barefoot and covered in matted band-aids, her hands and feet looked like she bathed in earth and oil, and she wore striped colorful pants that were left in the dryer too long, and a colorful girls shirt that did nothing but add to her tomboyishness. She had scraggly thin blond hair, and inquisitive beady black eyes, and wanted nothing more than the answers to every last thing known to mankind. Our meeting was very brief and it actually broke my heart that I could not stay and talk to her. I was sadly a strange man who pulled off the road to take a picture, and she was a young child alone in the front field, yes, this was tragic. In my world I would have spent the afternoon there telling her about ships and dark seas, planes and stars, lands as hot as apple pie and people who live among ice, far beyond the life of her Grandfather's shop. That said, I know this type of person, and I take comfort in having no doubt the day will come when she gets beyond the roads of Morrissville, and beyond the state of New York, and beyond the ocean of the Atlantic, a million miles from her childhood field, which will remain in her mind more vividly than anything else she will ever know. She is from the world, not Morrissville, and soon enough she will figure that out.

Pay toll 1 dollar. The Seneca river. No U turns, although I've made about 100. Moss and rust. Fresh fudge one mile. Iced coffee between my legs. Railroad tracks. Houses lean in every direction. Pink baby pool. Weedsport Rural Cemetary. Boys drive lawnmowers. Everybody drives lawn mowers. I dive over the west river, waive hello to a state trooper (we are both on our cell phones), Whitehaven road waives goodbye, so does a windmill. Fantasy Island Summer Park. Cat tails and muck, purplpe flowers, blue bridge, rainbow bridge, pay toll 1 dollar, Coca-Cola factory, half of a barn, black squirrels (that's new). Pulled over outside of Amherst, laid on the grass and thought about life. Colorful yellow and red insects rain on my windshield. Hey look!, a deer! Pay toll fifteen cents. At Dunkin Donuts an employee sees the photo of my Father in my wallet and says we look alike, and "That's God's gift", I agree, but I'm talking about donuts. Because I'm a tweaking fiend I do the worst most degrading act imaginable about 3 hours later, "Umm, excuse me, can you tell me if there's a Starbucks around here?" Corn. Silos. A big rig says Doritos. Next service 29 miles. Entering Ashtabula county. There is a hallway of flickering trees as far as the eye can see, my windows are down, the sunroof is open, there are 3 clouds and NWA's Straight Outta Compton is blazing beyond my car for a hundred miles. I think the wildlife appreciates me. Tall grass rolls beside me like my hand in the wind. There are wildflowers shaking and they look happy to be alive, as I pass a sign directing me to Chautauqua Lake. Buffalo is "An All American City." Niagara Falls clears my mind of everything, and I stare at it until dark. I wake up the following morning a little depressed, but I can't figure out why? I pull over somewhere, not even sure what state I'm in, and lay on the hood of my hot black Trans Am, maybe it's a Ford Focus, I can't remember. I can remember a Chuck Klosterman quote from Killing Yourself To Live that went something like this; "Life would improve if I crashed into a caribou." I begin laughing, my laugh grows, I feel like I might cry, not sure if it's from happiness or sadness, which ultimately are exactly the same once you add time, and the jury is in, I am once again happy, alone, smiling at the world. I get back into Blondie, turn the volume up a good two twists past the maximum, and sing Kings of Leon at the top of my lungs as my hot black Trans Am burns out onto the blacktop of America.

Lastly, about an hour ago I ordered an iced coffee in a cafe in Portland, Maine, where I planned to write this blog entry. Once I sat down here and began writing, I thought of something new, but there's no sense in overriding Darwin on this be continued.

This sums up, in a nutshell, about 1% of my past week.

Thursday, August 20, 2009


Dude! - I'm 4 hours in, and this trip fucking RULZ already!!! I'm in Chicago right now and a drug sniffing German Shepherd just sniffed my bag and gave a confident once over around my balls, not to mention there is a completely normal looking woman reading a Latin smut mag next to me. Oh, and let's not forget that I slapped a man at 4 A.M. this morning. Yeah, that's right, I slapped a man. ALL TRUE!
I fucking swear it!!!

Today I left Los Angeles beginning my epic 48 State odyssey across America, and I'll tell you now, I'm off to a great fucking start! This morning I hit the lottery with the 1 out of 14 bajillion chance of slapping another man. You see, 999 times out of 1000, if a man gets slapped it's because he's cheated, which disappointingly left my chances of ever slapping another dude somewhere around 1 out of 14 bajillion, but like I said, today's my lucky day. This morning at 4 A.M., my weed reeking, stoned out of his gourd, fluffy shirt wearing Super Shuttle driver arrived at my place to take me to LAX. I am headed to Detroit for the weekend, which is where I pick up my rental car and begin my journey. Well F! Look at the time. Because I'm limited for minutes here I unfortunately have to cut to the chase. This is what happened; shortly after my driver picked me up, my suspicions regarding his right to own a valid California driver's license were confirmed when he slept through a green light. Shortly thereafter he fell asleep twice on the freeway en route to Los Angeles International Airport, which is when, AS A DRAMATIC ATTEMPT TO SAVE MY OWN LIFE, I was forced to take matters into my own hands so I slapped the man from the back seat. It was fucking SCARY and god damn CRAZY!! Truly, that's not even the half of it. To Be Contintued...

Post Script: now it seems as though Bart Simpson is paging "Mr. Packer" here at Chicago O'hare... man, I can't wait to see what's next! 46 more states to go!!!..

Friday, August 14, 2009

Don't even think about it!

Don't even think about it! Don't you dare fucking do it JG Francis, and I'm not kidding. Jesus H Christ you stupid son of a bitch, say it ain't so! Yep, I'm happy. Just a smug little clam rolling in the sand and lapping up the shore. Odd timing I must say, but take that for what it's worth.

I've heard it a million times, people don't change, but I'm here to tell you, yes they do. I do! You do/can/should. I consider change my life's greatest accomplishment.

Something had to give, and give it did. It broke like a god damn levy, and a rendezvous with the new has flooded me. All those months of crying alone, lost in my obsessed mind, hellbent on sitting with my sadness in hopes of a better life has come back to pay me in full with friendship and laughter. Thanks friendship and laughter, You're The Fucking Bomb!!!

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

My Entire Life

(Please read the follwing in the chipper key of middle "C")

"When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going." John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley

Several months back I set out to be a bum. I un-homed myself as one of several steps to figure out what the hell I really want out of life. I cut all ties with nearly every possession I own. I nicely stuffed my entire life into boxes, covered those boxes in tarps, and stacked them neatly inside the garage at my old home. I labeled and placed them strategically figuring I would be back often to fish for what did not fit into suitcases. Months later I have yet to return.
The loose hope from this first step; reclaim my soul. Excuse me.. ((Check please!))

Now - Step Two: separation from my halved perspective of Los Angeles with hopes of understanding my unsettled heart by way of travel. A solo-lower-48-state road trip. I will admit now as an abundantly positive man, I fear this may not be the cure, but upon my likely return I will know I shall not die wondering.

Monday, August 10, 2009

He Got The Beat!

On a painfully normal hot American day in the summer of 1980, while my older brother brushed his braces in our middle class Nevada home, my young life was smashed forever by an oddly timed greatest moments in history. 29 years later that moment still reigns near the top of my list. I lifted my brother's Walkman from his bed, clamped the headphones onto my 6 year old ears, and pressed play. Consequently, "Another One (did actually) Bite The Dust"

Thursday, August 6, 2009

The Comeback Trail.

Looks like I'm not dead after all. Like Jesus, I came back to life. Who knew? My spirit was only hibernating to protect me. These past few weeks have blown my heart wide open again, and I am steadily on the comeback trail. Since "the break up" nearly 5 months ago, the one thing I never let go of was hope, and when you are broken in two, dying in sadness, remaining hopeful is nothing less than heroic. This is something I cherish about myself. Throughout all the unfortunate sadness in my life, I always believe in better days to come, and this has never failed me. I have no fucking clue what's next, but right now is good place to be.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

15 minutes

I will absolutely lose my shit in 15 minutes if I don't first push my dreams forward 143 more inches. In 15 minutes I have to go to "work" for the the first time in weeks, for approximately 1 hour, and I'm already shaking. But this blurb is my antidote.

My job is awesome, I will never deny this, I have built something great for myself and I know that, but no matter how great some things are in life they still don't calm the soul. This is why Otis Redding sang, "I've got dreams to remember." This is also why I have walked away from 4,017 great things that others called me crazy for. We lose sight of what really matters in nearly every area of daily life because society is jacked in this way. Keeping a true perspective on happiness takes unfathomable commitment. After double checking on all the things in my life I have accomplished with ease, I can think of only two. So fucking bring on the unfathomable commitment! I signed on the dotted line months ago: I, Jimmy George Francis, agree to never put anything before my dreams. Death by anxiety should this Agreement be breached.

Shit, I'm late for work....good for me!