I went to the Phoenix Art Museum this evening with Emma, Dana, John, and David.

I have never been familiar with Surrealism nor do I pretend to be so now. I did learn a few things, though.

I think perusing the exhibit helped me add to my definition of art. I think art is when you can keep getting closer and still find more to see.

That should be sufficiently un-helpful. Like my definition of good driving. Pick a side of the road, left, right; it doesn't really matter, and stick with it. Either you'll get where you're going or you'll be imprisoned and never have to worry about getting anywhere.

Speaking of driving, I changed my oil today. I also changed Molly's oil. I have a few new cuts, burns, and oilstains on my body but otherwise everything went as I'd hoped.

At least, I think so. I'll know for certain if my transmission drops out when I work tomorrow.

On Rails.



The clattering behemoth roared as it clawed a path along the earth-stained metal lane. The noise reached my ears but was just beyond my field of vision. What a thing, I wondered, to be in this world with your path already set and only an ancient furnace to guide you.

I hear your passage as you churn along. Your strength rattles us ever so slightly and with good manners we pretend not to notice.

I wonder about you; your rusted pieces of self. Constantly stopping, attaching, discarding. I imagine an army of boxcars, empty and spray-painted with the names of hopeful street gangs; all of them abandoned but still in sight of the weak wooden rail that descends to block the motor traffic. I hear the boxcars chuckle every time a horseless carriage approaches and hesitates before the railroad crossing as if in silent reverence, in tribute to the ancient boundaries.

The rusted iron tracks are a herald. They still proclaim to all driving in their cars and walking with their feet: "Don't be here when I am. Don't you dare be here when I am."

I am pleased. The wireless internet connection is up and running. My signal strength is almost as weak as the argument for Intelligent Design, but I'm still happy to have it.

The monsoon rains have been pelting the house. This is not a good night to be a delivery boy.

I still need to make a name tag that reads "Fry". In time, I hope to make a Galaxy Express polo shirt.

It feels good to sit at my old writing desk. It is as cluttered as ever with cds, notebooks, folders, first-aid tape, a talking Triumph the Insult Comic Dog doll, and the usual slew of hygiene products.

* * * *

As Kelly and I were driving to pick up Luis from his first day at Mountain Pointe, I tuned in to National Public Radio. I turned up the volume as I heard the familiar voice of Peter Jennings. I listened happily to the interview. "I really like Peter Jennings," I said to Kelly.

The interview drew to a close and then a voice said, "That was Peter Jennings in 1990."

I remember feeling little pin-pricks of warning inside my brain and I was instantly uneasy. NPR doesn't usually play programming from that long ago unless...unless...

"Peter Jennings passed away yesterday of lung cancer."

Peter Jennings was the first anchor I paid any attention when I was much younger. This was significant because at that time I didn't care for any television programming that didn't revolve around some kind of teenage mutant animal.

Perhaps watching a few snippets of news back then didn't really have a signicant impact on my development or anything, but I remember it and I remember it fondly.

What more could a man ask for?