CRUISE NIGHT IN D.C.
The carhop just ran to the bakery; I do not
know why. Leaving skis and headband
helter-skelter, there's certainly a new mess
left behind. 'I do not want to love you, but I'll
blow you just the same.' These are the things I
hear in this teen-age kingdom of shame. We are
sitting in a thirty-year-old car looking at everything
new. The swami guy at the neighboring gas-station,
sharing space with this ridiculous monthly car-show
is simply staring into space while filling someone's
car with Russian gasoline, or Venezuela, somewhere.
Distant and foreign eyes for distant and foreign lands.
Here comes the President, in his ten-year old Lincoln.
They don't use it anymore, not since they've gone to well
armoured SUV's - Escalades and Dinalis. Crazy big
American trucks with stone-bullet-proof glass. But for
tonight the President has stolen out the Lincoln. Not the
open-top in which Kennedy was shot, but another, newer
and less bold. He gets out of his car and falls down flat.
Perhaps drunk? Or just drunk and stupid? How will we
ever know the difference. This guys a fevered apple-cart
joke to watch. One-liners spill from his pockets. Doorbells
chime in his head. That swami-guy from before; he's not.
Just some Middle-Eastern transplant here now, working
our own gas stations for fun and profit. It's a living,
and someone's got to do it, I guess.
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