Stop? I’m just getting going.


There’s this movie called Into the Wild. It’s
about two hours long and has Emile Hirsch
as the lead. He calls himself Supertramp. He
lives on the road, hangs out with Mark Twain and
Hal Holbrook. Catherine Keener too. You might
remember her from The 40 Year Old Virgin.

She’s the hot mom Steve Carell goes after. Back
to Supertramp. After he hangs out with Vince
Vaughn and Zach Gall-if-uh-nah-kiss…. (I can’t
spell it, but I can pronounce it … that’s right, right?)
Anyway, he hangs out with them and rides in
a combine and shrieks about blood and fire

and truth being more valuable than gold
and fame and greenback dollar bills. Fuck it, right?
It’s like Boston’s “Peace of Mind” – “People living
in competition…” I see it on all roads.
What, are we racing? I drive a Honda, dude…
a stock silver, stick shift Civic that goes from

zero to 60 in the time it takes to
start the engine after a stall and get up
to speed again. You’re in a goddamned racecar.
“Armageddon” is written in Old English
font across the top of the windshield, but I
only see it for a brief moment in time

as you rocket on by, imaginary
finish line in sight. Hell on four rubber wheels.
Madness. Sparta. Survival of the fittest.
I now paraphrase Dane Cook, “Why did you stop
at that red light and make me hit you doing
80?!” Honestly, he wasn’t lying. The

highways are filled with people who drive in the
fast lane, going 64 and singing with
Don Henley and the rest of the damned Eagles
about what life’s like when you’re somewhere you don’t
have any business being. Meanwhile,
punks in sleeveless shirts roar past in massive trucks,

Metallica screaming about whiskey in
the jar. Oh God, then there’s the cars with all the…
You miserable bastards get off my lawn!
I have a broom and a Winchester shotgun.
My steam-shovel mama is next me on
my soap box, wagging her finger at me to…


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