Today turned out sunny. I found this out when I left my black-curtained upstairs room, snuck by George’s closed door, and entered the middle of June.  With Dylan on my Walkman---1975 concert cd, which I cassette-taped   for my $20 cassette player, doing amazing versions of familiar mid-70’s stuff.

  My legs are walking by themselves again after a winter of slothful  inactivity.  Nice to feel the strength coming back. My gut  is receding down from an outrageous 36 inch waist. I am going to regain that perfect body I had when I was homeless 2 years ago. The one that resembles a runty 16 year old boy. I like that body because it kind of floats underneath my big head, where most of my action is.  I have serious body issues. Worse than a woman’s. I prefer it to disappear.

  I walked past the soon-to-be mosque. They paved their driveway. Wooden fence pieces still lay against it. Fences might make good neighbors, but I would assume the neighborhood rascals & racists would spray paint it with all kinds of nonsense. This is the first mosque in town.

  Nothing doing at the sober house for girls next door, except an suv parked in the road with an old man and a young woman looking at it. I almost eluded their notice. Then under the screeching of mr. D I heard “ex-cusse me, sir.” I approached the car.

  “Is this…(address withheld) ?” Lady looked like Jennifer Beals, but with a weird Fran Drescher voice. I thought: hm, city lady. Street savvy.

  “Yes it is,” I said in my delightful voice. Such a nice guy. Pretty blue eyes.

  “Tell me, sir, would you rather live in a sober house here or in New Haven?”

  I said here, no doubt. Nice people ran it. Pleasant place. I assumed she was not the sober girl-to-be, but you never knew. She would make a fascinating neighbor.

  We chatted about the neighborhood. Pharmacy nearby? She wanted to know. Oh yes, within walking distance. Etc.

  “Thaaank you, sir,” she said in that voice which was annoying but interesting.

  I went on my way to the library, did some computer work, very important shit: OS’ing people like Chuck A. Stetson, who  is giddy in love, lucky bastard. Others, too. Then I went through the dvds and found “No Strings Attached”, which I missed in the theaters. I miss 99.9997% of the movies coming out these days. Saw eat pray love but Julia annoyed me in it. Plus the ambiguous ending. And that smarmy foreign guy? I just don’t trust him. Too good to be true. I liked the older guy in India, when she was “praying”, kind of. Sitting quietly, at least, which I am sure is difficult for mz Roberts.

  Home to George watching the Waltons.  I sat down and re-entered childhood, realizing this show had helped form me.  Ralph Waite even reminded me of my dad.  Ralph Waite is my idea of a perfect father.

  Seems John Boy is missing in action in WWII. The publishers got his latest manuscript but no one has heard from him since.

  “What the f. does John boy do in the war?”

  George considered this. Did I mention he had a haircut? Everyone is complementing him. Except Sarge.

(George on a good day !)

  “I dunno, maybe intelligence work? “

  “Embedded reporter?”

  “Huh?” He was crouched over on the rocking chair, filling out his forms from the government. Medical assistance.

  “I said: a reporter, maybe?”

  “Well, I don’t think so. Shit, I seen these so many times I should know.”

  I had Natalie Portman hidden in my bag.  She was squirming to get out and into my new blue ray dvd player, which I hate, because all the text is so small, and it can be connected to the computer, but I do not know how.

  I told him about Jennifer Beals.

  “Shit, she can live here. Throw that asshole out.” He pointed with his thumb to Robert Frost’s adjacent room. I think there is a damn sign in the fact that this fellow, a nice guy, but messy with his dishes (thus the ‘asshole’ remark) is named after a famous poet. I keep meaning to read Frost. Two paths diverging. Did he also say: fences make good neighbors?

  We yakked a bit and then I headed upstairs to my dark warm cave. TV on, muted.

  I had planned to write about my most mortifying episode in life, but chickened out, hence this post.

  Hint: it involves an absurd arrest.

  Felony charges.

  All in good time.

  Natialie is in her black box and ready to perform for me.  All is good. Not as good as Chuck has it, but simpler.  Better to study images on the tv and learn from them before another relationship.  George is all I can handle now. Riz, too.  He has been calling all day. 

  I opened the window to listen in on the sober girls’ cigarette talk.

  I wish they would have a barbeque soon. I am awfully social these days.