Planes, Trains, and Automo–December 21, 2007 at 11:05 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
But I don’t want my world to be too magical, because I don’t want to be in Dark Crystal or Labrynth. Even Bewitched might be too much for me. Will Ferrell certainly is. Having said that, I feel my life is actually more like a cross between The Butcher’s Wife and Changing Lanes: Things happen for a reason, but usually, the reason is a secret.
Last night, Detroit and I go to the AMTRAK train station to retrieve her two sons. She was excited; I was more than the usual amount of ambivelant. I was extra ambivalent. Extra-bivalent. I have my reasons. It was a cool, foggy night. The eight inches of snow that had fallen a week ago had now dissolved into the atmosphere to obstruct visibility. We drove to the train station. We drove to the vicinity of the train station, and then drove around and looked for it, eventually finding it, oddly enough, near the train tracks. Dark and and dank and small, and poorly lit. Was I in Casablanca?
We wait for the train. There was an androgynous old lady in an Amtrak uniform standing outside, smoking and coughing. She looked alot like Bogart. She came over and talked to us, and imparted her special brand of metaphorically menopausal train knowledge.
See this train here? Well, yeah, cause . . . it’s right he–
This train coming was the freight. Typically, the people train is behind it about 15 minutes. Hear that? Clang, clang, clang?
No, I really can’t–
That’s the Amtrak. It has to sit back there and wait. But it’s out there . . .
In the distance, in the dark and in the fog like some Noir film, the Amtrak approached. Meanwhile, a cute blonde chick approached, obviously wanting me but intimidated by Detroit’s possessive nature. She made with the conversation.
Is the train coming soon, or did I miss it? Pointing in the direction of the obvious–
She said her baby sister was coming in on the train, and she hadn’t seen her in five years. As the train approached, people got out of their cars and approached, like they were extras in a LIFETIME original movie.
Or Night of the Living Dead, because they moved slowly and shuffled their feet, and made odd noises. They all had a wild, what-am-doing-here-in-the-middle-of-the-night look in their eyes. The boys came off the train, but we waited for the cute blond to be reunited with her sister. It was an Oxygen channel moment. After we left, they were mugged–making it suitable for F/X.
And so here are. The boys are at the house for two weeks. Lots of Christmas movies come to mind with that scenario, however Home Alone is not one of them. It’s not good to be alone, I suppose. I wouldn’t know, actually. Especially around Christmas. Another Steve Martin movie comes to mind, a Christmas movie called "Mixed Nuts."
I don’t want to BE alone; far from it. But Christ in wobbly sidecar, I sure would like to have some alone time. I need it because I don’t really like people. The closest I actually get to alone time is when I park between jobs and take a short nap in the car. And that’s not really–
Maybe I don’t want to be alone, because I’ll think too much. I already think hella much. All I need is more time for that. Shitpiss. I get melancholy, do I, around Christmas? That’s what the season is for now, it’n’t? Do I sound a little schizo? Maybe I need to watch Identity again. Or Girl, Interrupted. I haven’t watched that one because it seemed like an overdose of Estrogen and Prozac stack. If someone can verify for me that I get to see some Angelina Jolie naked, I’m in.
I’m not exactly sure what the point of my little rant here is. Maybe I’m just trying to spread some holiday fucking cheer. Maybe I just want people to believe me when I tell them robots from the future are trying to kill me.
I feel like I’m going through The Money Pit as well. Already I’ve been in Kramer vs Kramer; I wish it could have been more like Mrs. Doubtfire. There is nothing like geriatric cross-dressing, except perhaps European politics. One begat the other, methinks.
And so, while I wish for the bittersweet, like Secondhand Lions or Rainman, what I get is just the bitter, like Boondock Saints or Annie Hall. Ironically, with so many more cameras on us now than ever before, life is less and less like a movie. It’s documentary.
Or a rap video.