Doo-doo-doo. … Doo doo? … Oh no. … No! … Noooooo!!! … Oh. … Hey.
Ever see that one flick with Sandra Bullock
and George Clooney? Oh damn, what’s it called? You know
the one I mean, right? They’re in space. Clooney dies.
I can’t even remember their character
names. The film itself is forgettable, at
least to me, but there’s one scene I recall most
vividly. It’s the part where Sandra’s talking
about driving and how important it was
to her back on Earth. When she spoke those words, I
connected with the scene. I do this as well.
Ever since I turned 16, I’ve been driving.
It’s a relaxation tool. My car is my
Fortress of Solitude. My sanctuary
from the madness outside the windows. Inside
it’s just me and the song on the radio,
unless someone’s riding along sharing the
moment. Tonight was one of those nights. My pal
Megh and I went for a cruise out along the
gulf coast, passing the spot where I proposed so
long ago. At least, it feels that way, even
if it’s only been a few years. Months. Weeks. Days.
The AC compressor won’t kick on, but it’s
all right at night. It’s cool. Mild. I dig it.
I feel younger now than I did when I was
like the protagonist in that Bob Seger
track, the one he did with his Silver Bullet
Band. It was the theme song for Chevrolet back
in the days when Joe Montana the broke hearts
of Bengals fans throughout southwest Ohio
and Bengals linebackers broke the hip of Bo
Jackson, the greatest video game running
back of all time. Bo knows Diddly, remember?
Bo Diddly? The Blues? American music,
damn it. What happened to it? Are we all just
content to sit back and let it be destroyed
by this sexed-up, jailhouse culture that is all
about me, me, me, me? I mean, I’m not. There
are a few bands who still rock. Royal Blood? Two
dudes, playing their hearts out, just like The Black Keys
used to before they wrote songs just to get I
Heart Radio airtime. Or Sirius. Does
that satellite radio shit still exist?
Here’s a parable for you, in modern terms:
When the big dog saw the small man he barked, “Woof.
Who in the blue hell are you? Seriously.
Three things, pal: A.) You have no business… B.)
-ing here, so C.) yourself back home. Got it? Good.
Now go, doggone it. Beat it. Scram and don’t come
‘round here no mo.” The little man shook his pea-
-nut shaped head and adjusted the hat on top
of it as he scraped his metal boot heel on
the cold, gray pavement underfoot.
“Afraid I can’t do that,” he said. “I’m hunting
for freedom. I’d like to know what world exists
where only one opinion’s acceptable.”
“In the name of God, why?” the motley mutt barked.
“That is madness.” The man pointed towards Sparta.
“That way I’ll know what freedom is when I see
it.” The canine cocked his head to the side the
way dogs do when they hear an unfamiliar
sound, word, sentence , phrase or paragraph,
and stared at the man for a long, tense moment.
The man smiled, hiding his broken, cracked teeth
and bowed his head slightly, out of respect. I
mean, how often do you meet a talking dog?
Now … I know what you’re thinking. Did the man sniff
the dog’s butt, or vice-versa? Was it taken
to that level, or was it more civilized?
Hell, I don’t know. It’s just a story. You
choose where it goes from there. Maybe the dog whips
out a calendar and shows him a summer
solstice occurring on June the 21st.
Maybe the man tells the dog a tale about
two cities, just ten miles apart, locked down
by John the 23rd and his yellow crown.
A snake? A rat? A cat? A dog? How now, brown
cow? Pigs eat and sleep in their own feces. Ewwww.
Who was the first person to ever drink milk?
I bet it was a woman. It’s always some
woman’s fault, just ask that damned Jimmy Buffett…
what an asshole. Come on now. I’m joking. I
love Cheeseburger in Paradise. … What? I got
your attention, didn’t I? Whatever. Good…