sorry about this

While speeding down the freeway, listening to Scott and Seth, the album that reminds me of Christmas and that I can be a total asshole sometimes, on my way to spread screeching, tuneless hope to the violinists of tomorrow, it occurs to me that the more I read Kerouac the more my mind functions in run-on sentences. On the road - interstate 35E northbound, that is - scribbling down mileage for tax deductions, concerned that I won't make it home in time to watch the office in pink plaid pajama pants (fake chai tea in hand), does not to me seem less epic than hitchhiking west in the pouring rain, a wad of thirteen soaked-through dollar bills clinging to the inside of my back pocket, unfinished novel and a change of clothes in my suitcase. After all, Michael and Holly broke up (speaking of unfinished novels).

So what is my contribution? A four-stringed machine lying recluse in my closet is precisely as useful its master, fat, American, employed, wrapped in dry blankets, turning two blind eyes to the snow and starvation.