Friday, September 4, 2009

WEEK 2 - One Ball and a Handful of Dreams

More adventures from the blacktop of America...

I need to see something real asap or I'm going to pull back the curtain and Wizard of Oz this fucking Truman Show. I'm sitting on a pony wall at James Madison University in Harrisburg, VA, and this place is suspiciously perfect. I'm not comfortable with this. Finally, a blotch; a golden young man with golden hair and golden arms has a stupid sounding sweaty wet shoe-sandal. Sorry dude, but serves you right. Shoe or sandal, not shoe-sandal. All the girls here are sporting cuchie cutter shorts with tanned Southern legs. These legs are a bit thicker than their feminine Los Anglelian counterpart. Since the age of nine I have concluded this to be a good thing, and since sitting on this wall less than ten minutes, I've fallen in love just shy of 400 times. I'm about to beeline it to the Admissions Department when some guy with a sign, a stick, and a megaphone starts screaming about Jesus. I feel like I'm living in a God damn stereotype when a blindfolded Freshman walks past being led by another classmate. A few more perfect smiles pass, when I notice a girl with the grin of young love on her face. She is texting, smiling, and currently experiencing the greatest feeling of her life. This has me thinking about young love. Fuck. How did any of us survive? I drive away eventually, still wondering if that entire university is run by animatronics.

Miles away from James Madison U, I make a U turn and pull over. From the driver seat of Blondie I am debating entering Chelsey's Water Hole. The name is suspect, and has my left eyebrow higher than normal. I've heard of a "watering" hole, but "water" hole? There seems to be something fishy about this place. I park, get out, and walk toward the door. As I round the side of the building I see a sign I missed upon my first lap - "Bikers Always Welcome." I stop, turn around, and head back the way I came because this place is in fact Chelsey's Water Hole, which is a metaphor(!) and not a place to get a tasty beverage. Maybe this is debatable? I drive on.

Because I love math I try adding up how many states I've been through so far, and it's like trying to count how many girls I've slept with. Although the number is somewhat low, I keep questioning if I'm double counting somewhere. I decide to go the conventional route and write them down. 17 United States behind me, and a good 100 pages to my first novel.

The moon above me in North Carolina is exponentially bright. The early Autumn clouds have divided its direct light to the earth, dispersing a nightlight to the tall trees beside me. I twist through a dark green valley staring at the yellow lines. Blondie pulls us through the silent hills above Wake Forest, and thoughts of my future loom. So do thoughts of my past. But I'm lost in the moment these days. A proud man with dreams no longer a distant extension of my broken heart, instead, they are right here in my sight. Some I hold right here in my hands. The hair on my arms and neck stand at this thought. I open the moon roof and send all the windows down. The cold Carolina wind comes crashing through like a wave. My hair whips my face. I am the luckiest person alive. I am so fucking happy, and so fucking proud, and so true of heart, and my hellbent determination on discovering only truth and love and happiness is coming full circle. I run through an endless list of people who have contributed to my happiness, and I am thankful for all of them, and for the first time in my life, I am on the top of that list.

Blondie pulls into the Super 8 motel in Williamsburg, Virginia, reverse-car-show style, and I pay $40 plus tax for a room. Ten minutes later I decide I have over paid by at least $36. The mattress feels like a hammock on a bed of rocks, I can’t determine the difference between a hand towel and bath towel, and a train wails past every 15 minutes like ACDC's Thunderstruck blaring from a Marshall full stack. Tonight I really do feel like I'm a million miles from home, if Los Angeles is such a place? It makes me wonder why I'm always so God damn happy?

Several nights before I'm carving the dark back roads beyond New Haven, Connecticut. It's cold and raining, and Blondie is all wet, but I'm dry and warm inside her, steering us toward an old friend's house...

Crap pie! I can't sit here all day, I've gotta pig to rescue!...

If anyone questions the validity of this next story, please refer to my fist. My love for baseball is similar to my love for having all my limbs, so when I found myself at Fenway Park last Thursday night, life was nothing less than perfect. That was until the bottom of the 5th, when said perfect life became nothing less than UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!!! Thank you J.D. Drew. That homer you smashed sailing to Grandstands Sec 6 rolled right into my hand, then, bitter sweetly, it rolled right back out when I gave it to the little girl it hit in the arm before bouncing over to me. I find it odd that the two most extraordinary highlights of this adventure so far involve 7ish year old girls.

Damn it! I have so much more.....To Be Continued... JG out!!!

Go instead where there is no path, and leave a trail. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

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