road blues

I love long drives. Been that way long before I read Kerouac's On the Road.

I love watching hills and towns and faces zoom by. Sometimes I see a beautiful face belonging to a young barrio girl, and my heart aches at the thought that I'll never see her again.

Am I the only one who thinks that sometimes -- no, most of the times -- the destination is not half as fun as the trip?

Eating cold doughnuts on lonely gasoline stations. Drinking beer. Smoking.

I prefer it when the window's down. That way I feel like I'm part of the landscape, not someone just passing by. I like the wind to whip my hair. Unlike those handsome TV models in vanity adverts, I've no problem with messy hair.

Driving at 90: speeding cars on one side, sunset on the other. Pearl Jam's Nothingman on the radio. This is how I picture myself on MTV.

On the radio, it could also be Tom Waits' Ol' 55 or Savatage's Sleep, where the sad singer sings, "I pray that I don't care... I don't care..."

Leaving everything behind. My middle finger on the air, man.