oil can Boyd

I was reading Dead Man Walking the last time I had Old 95's oil changed.

It's a good Thursday for music, new and old.

Calvin Klein

Leaving the house tonight I am wearing my Real. Comfortable. Jeans. with two fraying holes.

re psy cool

On the Strip, Marshalls between Panera Bread and Best Buy. I am eating a sandwich in one of them. A leaf of green lettuce from my money tree on ham and swiss. I just missed breakfast! I'll be buying an iTunes gift card in a minute. That kind of gives away my location now and then.

And 47 VHS tapes to ask someone else to recycle. From the words of her mouth when I killed some time in Best Buy on Wednesday, they will accept VHS tapes, even that many. They are stacked - with assured shifting - strength over strength in a Reese's Puffs cereal cardboard bulk box. I'm really hoping for a, "You can just leave it there" quick acknowledgement and send-off. I've already taken the one and only step. I have separated the sheath from the tapes. Those I'll burn on the nearest dry morning around 5 a.m. before the sky becomes a dim Windows welcome color. As many open-to-view little boxes as tapes.

I was asked to watch Amelia yesterday. A story that begins 27 hours ago involves the likelihood of Amelia watching scenes, only scenes, from labeled tapes. That's a story for a day without a birthday party second by second I might be late to.

I see

I see the relation: I run, I write. Take into account I told Ed, "Let's just wait until next week when I have the list to find the rooms," we left Shady Lawn early and it's not unreasonable to say I had motivation to finish my run on the bleachers during the double dose of high school and middle school track practice which, from an elevated view, consists of as much talking as walking as track and field.

(And I can inhale and exhale) and feel my laptop cool from hot-box car temperature to count-the-number-of-air-vents library temperature. That sentence took three-by-the-corner-clock minutes to write. I now have three more minutes.

There is a boy wearing a Redskins jersey. An older girl he calls "Erica" squatting with the whole bottom half of her leg on the ground, reading a couple pages. Two whole other kids, a boy and a girl, blond hair and early brown hair, young man's face and young woman's face, stepping around, sometimes looking on the upper shelves, sometimes not.

Easter

We'll eat in about 40 minutes, but for now I think I'll just come to my room and swap my contacts for glasses, lace the pair of shoes I polished and re-polished and let sit, maybe remove the small bottles from the upper window frame and let in some more wind and sun. I'll change shirts for sure. Something short sleeved. And my teeth. I need to brush them, oddly, though I'm eating soon. I could turn on some music. There's that thought you get looking at the afternoon time that has a second half consisting of, "What inning could it be in?" The Twilight Zone radio dramas I have been listening to are about a perfect 40-45 minutes. From my choices, in that length of time I could ask a genie for four, yes four, wishes, assess my living flesh life before lured to return as a mannequin, ride a train and meet a siren or time travel to Cliffordville.

It's possible though, we'll soon be eating in 30 minutes.

air force two

Another five minute stop on the Air Force One channel does not really influence any of the previous viewing. It was about to though. Watching anymore and the reaction would have been very, very non existent.

The short background is I should not have been watching television at all, but I slipped up and some morning shows were on and then I remembered the Starz free preview weekend. Yep, I just had to remember that. This was a Friday or Saturday morning. I had successfully been off movies for more than a month and off television for ... five days. No more TV I said! That's where I sit, that's where I don't move, that's where I ate the last three donuts the week prior.

The on-screen display gave me a timeline of how many minutes remained. Something like 20. Possibly one of the first lines of dialogue I remember hearing was, "I now hold hostage President of United States."

(I am finding a few days removed to impact my chronology - to the story - recollections.)

I know what occurred. They were equal parts laughing at the suggestive camera shots because the audience is already in on it that Gibbs (pulled from recent memory, surely not 10 years ago) is a traitor and sobbing between scenes at the White House with the Vice President, the music during the Russian prison release, the patriotism of the jets and the First Kid's kiss. And equal parts laughing at my sobbing for these final 15 minutes in an empty house that would provide an easy walk-out to spit and get some air when it was finally over.

The the most fundamental answer I could give to, "What is it you like about movies?" is, "A moving camera." But it was just about everything else besides a moving camera (though there was a spinning one at the very end which was hypnotic). Really, just that it was the last 20 minutes, that I hadn't seen the movie in years, that I could go without seeing it again, that I knew it had to be made in the 90s, not at all that one location is supposed to be Ramstein Air Force Base, that the story meant something to the story, that his wife and daughter were in the plane, that I could live with missiles firing and lose-in-the-end villains when something happens like the daughter strapped to the paratrooper hangs on the line and yells, "Bye Dad!"