I Can’t Stop Thinking About…
June 12, 2004
Yesterday afternoon, I was on IM with Angelina. Somewhere in the course of our chat, she sent me a link to a ninja themed website. Aside from talking about the general awesome power of ninjas, the site sells various ninja-related items, such as books, T-shirts, and hats. Their big slogan -- the one that's plastered over everything they sell -- is this: I can't stop thinking about ninjas.
Although this was true for Angelina, I found it rather easy not to think about ninjas. What I chose to think about instead was my upcoming road trip down the golden coast of sunny California.
So I wrote to her and said, "I can't stop thinking about going to California."
She countered with, "I can't stop thinking about the Tack Room."
Now, I don't expect anyone to understand that one. It was an inside joke that I'm not about to explain. And when I replied, "I can't stop thinking about grabbing Angelina's ass," that was something of an inside joke too. Although it doesn't need that much explanation since more people in the world can't stop thinking about grabbing Angelina's ass than are thinking about ninjas.
Anyway, after we traded a few more slogans, I declared, "I'm gonna make myself a T-shirt."
"Hee."
"Seriously. I'll be right back. I have to run to the store to buy some Iron-on transfer paper for my printer."
"You're crazy."
I returned a few minutes later and told her I was back.
"Someone just made me mad," she said.
I was still high on the T-shirt idea, so I was too preoccupied to ask her to explain. Instead, I simply said: "I can't stop thinking about punching whoever makes Angelina mad in the face."
Even though it was an awkward sentence, she appreciated the ninja-like sentiment.
"That needs to go on a T-shirt," she said.
I planned to make one T-shirt with a single, simple slogan, but when I lay them out to decide, I was struck by the poetry and decided to lump them all together: “I can't stop thinking about grabbing Angelina's ass, I can't stop thinking about the Tack Room, I can't stop thinking about punching whoever makes Angelina mad in the face.”
As soon as I got home, I made the shirt and put it on. And as I stood looking at it in the mirror, marveling at its beautiful absurdity, I decided I would wear it all weekend long.
The crowd at the bar last night ebbed and flowed. Small groups coming and going. It was low tide and most of the crowd had been pulled out the door and into the street, but I hung tight to my barstool and continued drinking. The bar tender was bent over washing glasses directly in front of me. She looked up and said hello. I nodded and said hello back. She leaned in and squinted. "I'm trying to read your shirt," she said.
"Oh, don't bother. It's not going to make any sense to you."
But I straightened up and pulled the shirt taut so she could read it anyway.
"Whaaa? " she said.
"Told you."
So I explained to her the whole story, just as I've explained it here. And even though she didn't understand the shirt, she did understand that I was a force to be reckoned with and deserved a free drink. "Thanks," I said.
"Cheers."
June 13, 2004
"I can't wait to get out of this hellhole," Joe said as he jumped into the passenger side of my Jeep. He’d come into the city to see the Bukowski movie with me, and, after spending the night at my place, I was driving him back to his home in western New Jersey -- a beautiful spot on the edge of the Delaware River.
During our drive, he began listing the things we'd do when we got there: "We can walk around town a little. Walk over the bridge into New Hope. Tomorrow we can go for a drive along the river. Dude, you'll love it, it's beautiful."
"Yeah, man, I know. I've been there before."
He seemed to have forgotten that I'm a Jersey boy, born and raised. "I'm psyched," I told him. I pictured us bombing down those winding country roads in the beat-up old pickup he used to drive and asked, "Do you still have your truck?"
"No, man, it died. The wife made me get rid of it."
"So what are you driving these days?"
"A fucking Volvo station wagon."
"No shit."
"Yeah, man, the old lady's really got me boxed in."
His wife was away for the weekend and wouldn't be back until Sunday. He was excited to have Saturday night and Sunday morning to do as he pleased, and I was excited for a weekend away from the "hellhole," so we made a pretty good team.
When we pulled up to his house, his neighbors, an elderly couple who were sitting outside on their front porch, waved to us and said hello. We said hello back, and Joe introduced them to me. "This is my friend Jamie. He's visiting from the city."
"Oh that's nice," they said. "It's nice to meet you."
I nodded politely and said hello back while trying to pull the strap of my overnight bag across the writing on my shirt that read: "I can't stop thinking about Angelina's ass."
This morning, after brunch and before our drive, we crossed the narrow bridge over the lazy Delaware River into the quaint little tourist town of New Hope, Pennsylvania. The streets are lined with specialty stores selling souvenirs and knick-knacks, second-hand clothing, pottery, wind chimes, et cetera. Ye Olde Timey Ice Cream Shoppe. Shit like that. By the time two slackers like us were up and out of the house, the main drag was already buzzing with the typical tourist town riffraff: Carefully quaffed old women dragging their husbands from here to there; Gay couples in Dockers and expensive loafers walking proudly hand-in-hand; tie-dyed hippy teens; J Crew yuppies pushing sci-fi strollers. Kids armed with ice cream cones, running up and down the blocks. The traffic was a slow parade of SUVs, topless Jeeps, minivans, and midlife-crisis sports cars. Middle-aged born-to-be-mild bikers riding brand new $30,000 bikes wearing never-before-worn T-shirts proclaiming their freedom. Their wives or girlfriends were sitting on the back in their high-waisted stone-washed jeans. Thin black conch belts cinched impossibly tight at the waist until each one of their asses looked like the metasoma of an ant. And the T-shirt. The impossibly clean T-shirt, still creased from being on the hanger in the boutique of any one of a dozen Harley Davidson dealers across the Northeast.
After brunch, Joe and I got into his Volvo wagon and went for a Sunday drive. I don't know. I mean, does it count as a Sunday drive when the driver is chain-smoking cigarettes, guzzling Sprite like there's no tomorrow, and cruising at double the legal limit? When he's riding the tail of the car in front of him, muttering insults until he finds his opening and passes at eighty miles an hour? Is that still a "Sunday drive?" Sure. Why not? Joe did slow down here and there. Like when we passed the tiny building that housed a local paper. Joe is a sports writer and covers the local area. High school games, Little League, et cetera. "That's our competition," Joe said, pointing to the newspaper office. "Our paper smokes them. Totally smokes them. I mean, in sports coverage? No question. Fuck them." And we sailed on past.
Joe brought up the town’s competing newspaper a few more times, but I wasn’t listening. I was enjoying the scenery and thinking about the ass of the hot pink ninja from the left coast.
