Poison in the wood, seeps into the core of the place. It’s for sale, for those not faint of heart. I’m fascinated by it, of course. Small town blight is mesmerizing at the center of this town. Across the street is the post office, it of the hellish parking lot, smashed cinderblock at bumper level, too brittle for the monstrous trucks.
I live here and I don’t, my eyes are on the wind, or so the song does.
I will miss the cheap greasy hamburgers from the 101 drive thru. Oh the curly fries. I’ve noticed a theme in my food obsession which is: Greasy! Fried! Stuff to make Mama say, “Maaaaaaaa.”
If some people’s bodies are temples, mine is a junkyard. I’ll get back in a more active thing (ha!) so when I’m not chained to a car. Or a desk. Or when I’m dead.
My spirit animal is on the right. The corn dogs were amazing. I stared at the cotton candy for too long before sanity overtook me and I moved on. Betrayed by my timidness and a faulty auto zoom, a lot of the photos are blurry. Lacking in focus, like the operator.
I can’t remember what the name of this auto parts store was. I do remember that they came to life in a Simpsons Halloween special. They stand outside of Mario’s, a rather good Italian (of the red sauce variety) place in Redwood Valley, the place where my dad compares all dining experiences to. Get the pizza!
PS: Wikipedia sez they are the Pep Boys: Manny, Moe & Jack.
And of course it’s impossible to get the Tom Petty song out of my head.
What happens in the Free Fallin’? Chipped teeth, skinned arms, landing on dirty vinyl, and running the wheel that howls with rust. Another day at the country carnival. I drove past the lot and every bit was loaded onto trucks. See you next year, Free Fallin’.
Most of the rides at this carnival I remember from Frontier Days of yore. Which is terrifying, because that was 20 years ago.
Objects are more crooked than they appear.
I can’t mourn the loss of things, the nature of things is such that they pass like the night, or whatever that was.
A church or a mortuary or a parking lot.
The memory of the city starts from when I remember it. A memory should be scrubbed once in a while, clean slate, start fresh.
We ended up here many a night. Started a bar crawl here also. Smelled like a rank toilet. It seems like nothing good comes from the Attic, but I’ll miss the idea of it. It’s another thread back to olden times in San Francisco that’ll be gone for good, be it for the better or worse.
From Ilford 3200 Olympus point & shoot experiment last August or something.
emel 