Drunk Driving America
Drunk Driving America
There is a bar on the train from Chicago, Ill to Portland, Or. When your own stock runs out, and your relationship builds with the nineteen year old girl in life crisis headed to her fathers house in Longview Washington (whom she has not seen in fifteen years except in the numerous relationships she’s been having with older men), you can buy little bottles of Jack Daniel's for five bucks a piece to relax you.
The train follows loosely a previous wave of American success, piercing the downtowns of many a once bustling town. It’s path often avoids the freeways, of which I will speak of as little as possible. The trains path does shadow many beautiful roads, though on which are rusted relics shepherding meth heads, drunks, hippies and whore safely to their destinations. On these roads too are young mothers, recovering addicts and would be heroes. Often these two camps collide and their blood mixes tragically on the pavement.
I don’t advocate drinking and driving. It happens, though. The second leading cause of death in young men 18-25 years of age is suicide. The first leading cause of death is drunk driving, which is a kind of suicide. But many of us get away with it everyday. Something tells me that amung Protestant ambition, profit motive and greed, the joy of seeing a summer morning through a windshield with a Bloody Marry in you was one of the sculpting influences on Americana. Quite satisfying too is draining of guilt from your soul while you have a shot and a beer after a shameful evening.
I don’t advocate drinking and driving, but I’ve done a hell of a lot of it. I’ve wrecked cars, awoke with a mouth ful of blood, I’ve driven people away from abusive relationships, I have crossed the Benjamin Frankin Bridge in Philadelphia for the last time, many times. If the circumstances were the same, I’d do it all again too.
There is a bar on the train from Chicago, Ill to Portland, Or. When your own stock runs out, and your relationship builds with the nineteen year old girl in life crisis headed to her fathers house in Longview Washington (whom she has not seen in fifteen years except in the numerous relationships she’s been having with older men), you can buy little bottles of Jack Daniel's for five bucks a piece to relax you.
The train follows loosely a previous wave of American success, piercing the downtowns of many a once bustling town. It’s path often avoids the freeways, of which I will speak of as little as possible. The trains path does shadow many beautiful roads, though on which are rusted relics shepherding meth heads, drunks, hippies and whore safely to their destinations. On these roads too are young mothers, recovering addicts and would be heroes. Often these two camps collide and their blood mixes tragically on the pavement.
I don’t advocate drinking and driving. It happens, though. The second leading cause of death in young men 18-25 years of age is suicide. The first leading cause of death is drunk driving, which is a kind of suicide. But many of us get away with it everyday. Something tells me that amung Protestant ambition, profit motive and greed, the joy of seeing a summer morning through a windshield with a Bloody Marry in you was one of the sculpting influences on Americana. Quite satisfying too is draining of guilt from your soul while you have a shot and a beer after a shameful evening.
I don’t advocate drinking and driving, but I’ve done a hell of a lot of it. I’ve wrecked cars, awoke with a mouth ful of blood, I’ve driven people away from abusive relationships, I have crossed the Benjamin Frankin Bridge in Philadelphia for the last time, many times. If the circumstances were the same, I’d do it all again too.
Labels: Canadian Club, Chevy Cavalier
posted by Bloodnock at 1:35 PM
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