I am a big fan of old schoolbuses getting all rusty with people putting their extra shit inside of it. I told myself, which is why the numbers are three digits, I was gonna do a thousand Polaroids, and I could probably dedicate 250 of those to old schoolbuses, but that would get boring as fuck. Not like this won't anyways, but fuck it, this is for my enjoyment. I'm just forcing you to look at the shit once in a while. I know it'd be better if it was Polaroids of big naked titties, but you get plenty of that on the intrawebs... there's not nearly enough loungin' pictures of old shitty vehicles.
This is actually my neighbor across the road's truck, and it's a limited edition thing from the '70s or some shit. I looked it up, because it has glistening letters that say "BEAU JAMES" on the bed, and there was a redneck Tennessee wrestler named Beau James, and to this day I do not know why that name is significant enough to warrant a wrestler and truck, but it is. Anyways, this truck was my neighbor's pride, and it sat in his front yard, and then one night the other neighbor on the opposite side of my goat field's kid, who was probably about 20, came home drunk and swerved in the curb and ran into their front yard and smashed the truck. All sorts of rural neighborhood drama ensued, with the law being called, even though drunk kid could see his own front porch from where he wrecked and had promised to pay for the damage, and his own dad, who had moved out from home because of domestic disputes, was a volunteer ambulance dude, so he got called to the scene, and I was standing in the road in my flannel pajama pants and nothing else trying to get the dudes to cut off all their flashing lights because we didn't have curtains and it was gonna wake up the baby.
Now, the baby is grown to 3, the neighbor's kid lives in the basement and blasts David Allan Coe and we have a mutual respect for each other because we have shared beers at the local ran-down pub, and the neighbors across the street are sort of uptight but good enough folks but I don't think they understand you shouldn't fuck with the neighbors in the country, even if that means not calling the law when they drunkenly wreck into your car. I guess for some folks - for better or worse, I'd consider myself part of that "some" - wrecking into somebody's car drunk is just something that's gonna happen every now and then.
I turned around to go look at this ragged work van by a gravel road by railroad tracks because ragged work vans are awesome. I often imagine I would look more appropriate in one, but then I try to manifest myself towards success and eliminate that possibility from reality. When I got to this van, the weird drippy FBI-analysis-needing handwriting with the soapstick tripped me out. Looks like the guy was in the middle of a two-day sleepless binge of some sorts, had accidentally shot himself with his natural right hand, so scribbled the shit shakily with his left hand, bragging on a "new motor" in this piece of shit. I'm sure that's the guy's value of himself in life as well, that he's all fucked-up and weird, but his heart if brand new and pure and perfect.
This was a few miles before that last one, and I basically liked it because much like being a fan of shitty old vehicles, I'm a big fan of shitty old motels. My dream artfag gig would be to just have someone pay for me to ride shitty regular roads (meaning no interstates) and stay in hotels that were probably the greatest places ever in 1962, but once interstates came along (stupid Eisenhower!), they became irrelevant and left to gradually decline. The Countryside Motel actually is now shut down, which I had never noticed before. Of course, this just made me want to break in to see what was left inside, but the restaurant next door looked to be some sort of weird church now and I felt like old ladies were peeking out the windows at me, so I figured I'd better not snoop, break, and enter in case the law had been called.
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