PP: Part Twenty Two

I stopped at the Bank of America to turn a check into pocket-burning dollar bills, and as I'm driving out, over by the putt putt, is this old Scout. Click of the Polaroid, and you wait five minutes with the thing sitting on the heater for maximum exposure curing post-click, and the clouds behind it's head plus the sun shining on it's face is like the aura of a prophet. I felt kind of like I should've went back and stolen it and headed west, to fulfill whatever destiny it led me to, but I was already waiting in line at the automatic payment machine to keep my cell phone from getting cut off.

Before I started working for myself, I worked for this wacky menagerie of Mexicans, dropouts, and earth hippies, and the boss was this giant heighted crazy guy with long braids and a lazy eye and a big passion for a lot of the same things I was crazy for. His home compound is a collection of scraps and things and construction art and I spent a good amount of time doing some light carpentry at this awesome cathedral-looking timber cottage he built out there. He loved old Dodges, and has three or four of them. This is one of them, sitting in the woods nowhere central Virginia, being perfect. It makes me sad there's laws against having shit like this in a lot of places.

Matte black is the pimpest, no doubt. I think I saw this lounger again but in a different spot the other day over near Palmyra.

There was this guy and another microbus lounger lounging in the tall grass by DJ Rah-bee's house when me and Boogie Brown had been down there to fuck around one weekend last year. It was one of those funny moments as a retard with antiquated formats because I was all happy to snap some Polaroids, but DJ Rah-bee, who's a technophile and a half, had some digital camera with 8.1 megapixels plus USB printer with high quality color that spits out right away, and he said, "You can use it to take pictures of the buses." The point is how awesomely retarded the Polaroid is, not having a high quality picture of a rusty hippie wagon. And now Polaroid has said it's not making 600 film anymore (although they are trying to sell the "technology" to others), so now all we'll have is digital cameras with amateur Ansel Adamses thinking they know what the fuck they're doing. I don't even pretend to know what I'm doing. I just like having a shoebox full of Polaroids of junk cars and hot rods. It makes me feel comfortable at night, kind of like your next-gen gaming system or camera phone/email machine or whatever stupid fucking robot you fellate every morning when you're about to head out the door for another day.