Maybe Tomorrow

I was thinking about wandering off into the desert this weekend. Now, this may sound strange to you, especially if you are not the kind of person that lives in a desert already or are not the kind of person who might wander into hostile terrain as a general course of action. Allow me to explain this desire to you, with the self-assurance and the cocky swagger of the truly intoxicated. But first, I have to change this song, because fuck, if you haven't listened to "Never Hear Surf Music Again" by Free Blood, the first two minute are amazing and the last four minutes fill me with a rage I would have not have thought possible, until this moment of my life. It's like having sex with the hottest woman in the world (I guess that's Jennifer Lopez, according to these guys?), only for her to turn into some sort of freakishly ugly shapeshifter two minutes into the act. Or something. I don't know. Look, the metaphor isn't perfect. Let's just fucking move on.

It's Kind Of Like This

I was on my way home from work when the thought came to me. I was flying along down Silverbell Road astride my bike, with the setting sun on my left and nary a car in sight in either direction. The road unwound in front of me like an asphalt ribbon and the desert around me was a brown-and-green blur of sharp rocks and sharper plants. It was a moment that makes you stop and think (not literally, of course, you and your bike keep doing your thing, together) but all the same, I thought about how to explain what it feels like, how I might describe the moment to somebody that's never had it.

I couldn't do it. Or maybe I could do it, but I think that there's somebody who already did, and better than I ever could. Regardless, I think there's too much of me in this blog (which is to say 100%) and so I wanted to take this time to share a little piece of writing that I found, that very much describes what it feels like to ride through such a moment.

The excerpt after the break.

In Which Much Is Revealed

Not for the first time, I'm rethinking my decision to purchase a desktop to replace my much beloved and sorely missed laptop. At the time, it seemed like a prudent decision and for the most part, I have been pleased with my choice. However, there are certain nights, nights such as this one whereupon I regret my decision. I regret that I cannot sit out on the porch of my apartment, illuminated only by the warm glow of a laptop monitor and the small cherry of a wood-tipped cigar and write in the proper form and fashion, the tradition, if you will, of Hemingway and Alger, a tradition and a mystique that has long since faded from the world. Simply put, we're all nerds now, without the style and sophistication of those who came before us. We play at profundity, but cannot hope to understand it, because we've had it good for so very, very long.