There is a stretch of I-85 where, for more than 30 miles of pure driving ecstasy, the road widens and the speed limit climbs to an easy 70. You can feel it immediately–the sacrifice of automotive decorum–in the road, in the general mood, and pushing your car to 85, 90 becomes a kind of imperative. It’s like you deserve it, you know? And then those deep existential questions well up as you glance at your speedometer, namely a) why does the other half of the gauge exist if I’m not allowed to drive that fast and b) what is the precise nature of 160 mph?
When you pair this with night driving, I concluded as I drove back to Charlotte last week, well, right then and there you’ve defined my favorite means of transportation. It’s fast. Ethereal. Focused, guided only by the brief columns of light cast by the lane reflectors. Oh, there are other drivers, sure, but the real communion happens when your car is flush against the pavement: it’s the agreement between gravity and motion, staying and going.
But let’s talk about the weather for a moment. It was unequivocally gorgeous this weekend. As far as global warming goes, I don’t know if it’s an Inconvenient Truth so much as a Totally Awesome Truth, and having said that I realize I’d be one of the first ones to go, should the water level rise. I saw The Day After Tomorrow. I’m in the know. Help us, Dennis Quaid.
One of my pets, wrapped in a blanket and placed snugly in a cardboard box, is resting on the countertop now, and while he waits to be buried, I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting for the punchline. The other shoe did drop today.
I’m gripped by regret, the kind where you wonder if you could’ve saved your pet, had you refrained from working later. Five minutes, ten minutes, two, one, something to pay off the debt now fulfilled by apologetic petting.
Falfa and I will make the drive early tomorrow morning to that hallowed backyard where family pets are interred. I’ll check a few more times, but I think he’s serious, and there won’t be a punchline tonight.
In my enduring quest for illicitly procured television shows, it only recently occurred to me to take the straight and narrow and, be ye amazed, draw from the source. Such media sainthood only applies to ABC programming, however, because without YouTube it wouldn’t have been a very Benihana Christmas, and we all know the true meaning of the season is to watch The Office unabated.
There are no resolutions this year, only threads–all of which are there, but it’s the tying together that’s the toughest. They aren’t unreasonable, I don’t think: dialogue more with you, invest smartly, buy some property, find a good woman, commit to a church, meet some reliable doctors. But the threads are dense, and when you revel in the details, in the process itself, your time frame changes.
One thread–the job thread–has been all-consuming this year. All-consuming and all-worthwhile, to be sure, because where you spend most of the day better damn well make sense. And it does. Every morning is awash in amazement. Gratitude, still. Contentment. Even Mondays. When will the other shoe drop?