The Aimless Forty-Five Minute Roadtrip, Part One / 16 May 1998
After my fifth consecutive day of lying motionless in my apartment, practicing circular breathing, being fed, intravenously, a type of Tang/Gatorade melange, soothed to a relaxing, enjoyable semi-coma by an ever-repeating 37-minute compact disc containing scary Halloween sound effects, I started to suffer from mild headaches, bed sores, periodic nosebleeds, osteomyelitis, and acute circumcision (ho ho, J/K!) and decided maybe I should get out, get some fresh air, hit the road, see the sights, get down/funky with the people out there in the world, and maybe, you know just maybe, maybe I could spread a little of the love and good cheer that’s been burdening my heart as of late.
I decided to indulge in that most American of pursuits, the aimless 45-minute roadtrip. Even as I pulled the plastic tubing from my nostrils and did a quick (too quick) bikini wax, I could smell the open road, feel the wind blowing through my hair(s). Motion. Speed. Merge! Spin out! Go, baby! Flip the bird! Litter! Squeal!
A single tear meanders down my cheek and plunges to the open Yellow Pages in my lap, opened up to Martial - Massage.
You Americans out there must (have to!) agree that the key to the aimless 45-minute roadtrip is the right soundtrack. Am I right? Can I get:
So after packing a light, nutritious lunch and some deodorant, I quickly assembled a nice mix tape that would accompany me on this roadtrip, creating a certain mood, a particular vibe, you know, of action and aggression and motorized propulsion and pure oxygenated freedom. I’ll list the contents of said tape so you can copy it and make your own, if you’d like. And seriously, a minute or two after popping this honey in the cassette deck you’ll be choking in a violent deluge of rockingness. Here:
AWSUM ROAD TAPE!!!! [45 min.]
I have this car that’s called an ACCORD. It’s made by Honda, a Japanese automobile manufacturer. Even though it’s a Japan-based company, you’ll sometimes see their products on the roads of America. I’ve done a lot of work on the Accord over the years, and customized it so it now fits my particular curves, quirks, and fetishes. For example, I’ve covered the rear window (broken about a year ago during an unauthorized entry by someone not known to me) with overlapping strips of duct tape and I’ve covered the shards of glass in the back seat with a blanket. I’ve also stripped the brakes so that I have to slam them all the way down and hold them there with both feet in order to even begin the slowing-down process. A nice layer of grit, dust, and a curious sticky glaze complete the “look” and “feel” that I have labored so long to create.
The ACCORD shakes and shudders like a palpitative heart, groans, spews, exhausts, protests, but ultimately bends to my churlish and wicked whim. The mix tape inserted, the volume cranked, the windows rolled down halfway so as to allow in deafening/blinding blasts of air but restrict a small child from accidentally falling out, I step on the gas (step-on-the-gas) and begin the epic journey that would change me into an unrecognizable husk of my former self.
O tortured tenses!
O glorious summer! Welcome me into your fetid bosom!
[Next! Part Two of Two: Road Rage. Lower Back Pain. Sweaty Knees. Rampant Idiocy. Topless Waitresses. A Weird Rattling Noise. Serious Torque. And A Shocking Conclusion.]