IMPORTANT NEW NOTES FROM JUSTIN:
US Tour Day 97: Dilly and Dally Take Florida
I woke up in Orlando on Jen Baldwin's floor. We spent the morning working on her 1972 VW Beetle. I rethreaded the shaft of her generator, as it was completely stripped. But, we were missing the half moon key that holds the pulley to the shaft. I'll have to see about getting one of those for her. It's fun to work on a pre–smog car—it reminds me of my years of working on my Fiat 850 Spider.
I didn't get much time in Orlando, as I had to rocket off to Dunedin, Florida to meet my next hosts, Marion and Monica.
Marion was a reticent yet abundantly generous girl who spends her days working for the Boy Scouts of America. It is in her honor that I have named the hard drive of my computer "Marion's Boy Scout Rape Fiesta Camp".
Monica is a circulation clerk at the local library and tonight she told me about one of the guys that comes into her library—one of the more odd fellows. She said he was best known for the time he came in to pay for a book he had damaged.
He'd returned the book in the book drop. When the clerks were checking it back in they found the pages were wet and sticky. So, they made a note in the computer system that the "pages were wet and stuck together. AND IT SMELLS!!!"
As Monica explained, they keep all the damaged books in a back room and then they send out damaged book notices to patrons to remind them to come and pay for them. One day Mr. Kreebly came in to pay for his damaged book. Monica went back to get the boook and found it was wrapped up in not the usual one but instead three plastic bags.
Why three plastic bags? she wondered. But, that was when she saw the title, "Sex After Forty" and it clicked. Oh! I get it!
Then there was the time that the same guy was printing from one of the library's public computers. Now, the printer is behind the circulation counter. So, you have to come to the circulation clerk to pay for the prints. They wouldn't want you running off with them without paying the library that ten cents per sheet!
He approached the counter.
Mr. Kreebly: "I wanna pay for some copies."
Monica "How many?"
Mr. Kreebly: "Um, seven or eight."
She went back and found there were twenty or so pages on the printer tray.
She flipped through the stack of printouts. They were all identical, and she was horrified to see words that disgusted her—words that violated her eyes—on the twenty or so sheets of printer paper. He'd been printing his erotic poetry at the public library!
She acted nonchalant, not wanting to make a scene. She explained to me that she pretended to not see what he had printed out.
Monica "Well, what was on it? Words? Pictures?"
He got flustered and said, "I'll get them, I'll get them, I'll get them."
He insisted that only three of the twenty identical pages were his, leaving a stack of original copies of his erotic poetry for Monica. And, through her generosity I am able to present his genius—albeit incomplete—to the world. (I have retained all of the original punctuation and spelling.)
You can see that his poem is incomplete. Who knows what he may have been preparing to ruminate on—except that it had to do with Keither with a capital K!
In the evening we visited a beach and some islands off the west coast of Florida, but their names escape me. I know there were lights and hotels and a vast stretch of ocean and cold night air. But, beyond that I really can't remember where I was. And where we were wasn't as interesting as how we got there. We drove around in that aimless way that you do if you're angsty and young—taking the scenic route through neighborhoods and business districts. Time is insignificant since you have way too much of it, so you meander. Punk rock blares on the car stereo.
I remember the sentiment. I remember traveling this way—riding around some town in a friend's car—but, only barely. It had been many years since I'd spent an evening driving around like this—maybe the last time was when I was fifteen or sixteen with Aime Fundum in Fontana, California? Or, maybe I was in Orange County with my friends from that hardcore band Hold True, but I'm not sure. I can't remember. I've been so busy creating things and making music and rushing from appointment to meeting to party to dinner to date for so many years that I've almost completely forgotten the feeling of meandering and any instances of it in my life.
Meander. Dawdle. Lollygag. Relax. Float. These are words I don't use much—surely not in the first person. I don't think there's anything wrong with this sort of aimless, Brownian motion. Particles do it all the time, and what are we but huge collections of particles?
I think I'm just a control freak of sorts. I want to be in charge of where I'm going because time is fleeting and I have an endless of ocean of things I want to get done in this short lifetime. I tell myself I need to be efficient—so much to do, so much to see! But, it makes me wonder: Am I maybe missing out on something important by doing things the way I've been doing them?
I think this will require some investigation and experimentation. I need to re–taste dilly–dallying and see how I feel about it today.
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