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| Excerpts |
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| Oh to be young and old and dead and alive and riding in the Flying Dutchman of the Plains... |
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| Oh, to be old and timeless enough to be able to forget things of real importance. To not know anything else but those things immediately surrounding you. To take for granted such an easy form of death. To forget. To be dead. To be dead and driving... |
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Oh, to be behind a wheel and think that you have so much control. To drive thru your life with a comfort as deep as a plush cloth-covered carseat. To make your own destiny by turning a steeringwheel. To make others jump by honking the horn. To be in complete control of color and extras. To push a button and call up a wide spectrum of music. To know you're in complete control. To be so incredibly wrong... |
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| Charismatic and youthful, Bozeman mayor Rap Maverick wears his shirt unbuttoned to his fifth rib and complains about every hair he sees lying around. He imagines they're all leaving his head, like a parachute assault in World War II leaving the plane... |
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The car sneers, car lives, car days to car nights, headlight eyes and locks popped up on both shoulders. Automobile wheels spin out fate, joy, a way to say hi or even just make sure that some breathing is going on. Why do you need to take so much with you just to get somewhere. Jackson Meatball knows why. He speaks loudly, and speaks of the reasons...
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| So much steel. So many cars. So many lanes in so many roads waiting for so many more. So much empty land waiting to be converted into so many parkinglots or so many roads... |
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Contact: E-mail me
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