T R U T H

The train pulls into the station. The engine is a GE diesel, the one with a windshield like a '52 Ford. The passenger cars are all like the 50s euro deals with compartments where Simone Signoret is sitting alone wearing a hat with a veil. I sit next to her and smoke my Lucky like Charles Aznavour, thumb and index finger, palm facing out. She's taken by my boyish looks but says nothing and continues to look out the window. Next thing you know, it's out. That's correct - it -out. The conductor pokes his head in and I use my Saturday Evening Post to cover my lap. Ben Affleck approaches and asks "are you aware it's not 1952?" I lift the corner of my magazine and Ben quickly departs. The conductor comes back and reports a car is stuck on the tracks so we'll be delayed for a day or so until a tow truck can be summoned. Simone asks me if she can look through my magazine. I say "sure, if you're not squeamish about atlas missiles." She laughs and goes back to looking out the window. I tip my fedora at her and back myself into the aisle wishing I hadn't just watched Seinfeld and got the shitty idea to use this as a story. I was trying to work in a joke about a guy who is a sperm donor and calls his pay for jizz "his secretionary income." But the above came to mind and I know better than to over-ponder so eff it.

bangin' out hi8s for like the 20th day in a row. I may be aging rapidly but the song gets a 10. 30 year old Joan Crawford gets a whistle.