Thursday, November 6, 2008


Flying down the Garden State Turnpike doing roughly seventy miles per hour with no room to breathe. We were on a mission to eradicate all the boredoms and tragedies of life. Every crazy bastard was behind the wheels of these thunderous machines while clouds rolled off the back windows and disappeared with every inch that we approached that island of lonely people. The one window that did go down well, it was down. The purr of this eight-cylinder machine of hell was nothing of a straight shot at the president with a hunting rifle. Pure adrenaline at the helm. Swerving in and out of the mile-markers, the fast lanes with the slow people in them. It felt like there was an end to the world and we were trying to get as close to the edge of it as possible. 

Then danger ahead. Traffic jams. Gridlocked ironies. Car exhaustion. Makeshift transitions over to the edge of the road and straight on through to evening, hopefully. That's all we had, Hope. Until some bastard in this gas guzzling, American destroying SUV felt the need to cut us off. To discontinue our run to the edges of freedom from the breakdown lane, but we only thought about this for a second and immediately took the situation into our own hands. 

We were driving a fucking ship. The titanic iceberg. This was the kind of car you didn't fuck with at the beginning or the end of each day. Alvaro Uribe Velez and Edgar Allen Poe in the grips of the ship. We went right around without a moments hesitation because we knew that if we didn't it could be years from now to regain this bizarre opportunity of dumb luck. 

We speed past all these slow demons and right past a tractor-trailer truck that had toppled over. There was blood all over the road and a sense that death was here. This wasn't just a coincidence that we were seeing the deathbed of someone we may never know. This was a true crime at hand and we all knew the fine police dept. would take care of everything. If that wasn't bad enough of a break, we pulled up to the tollbooth of the Lincoln Tunnel where for six dollars you can go under the fantastic river of the Hudson and end up on the other side in the land of the vulturous. We entered the tollbooth with caution as the air hadn't really cleared yet and it was just another one of life's treats. 

This lady vulture creaked her salt wound neck over to collect our money but even after collecting it she was still not satisfied. I realized then and there that a Colombian man and a caucasian man should never be traveling together in a giant ice berg floating to knock everything out of the way. She had this assumed look in her eyes like we had some ties in with drugs and sex-crazed women, she looked at us like she thought we were people that can't travel anywhere and be trusted that they are going to follow all of the rules and make no mistakes along the way. She seemed to assume then that we were going to attack her, that was the exaggeration of the situation. I immediately felt nausea and slumped into my seat but then immediately went right into it. 

I looked at the woman and told her exactly what was going on. I pointed my index finger of death at her and I said; there is no problem here, we are passing through and you are not going to get in our way. She let us pass through and I knew she had felt it. Deep in the womb. We flew as fast as possible under great depths of seas where pirates and sailors have given their lives for the development of thousands of high rises, so gods could sit in the sky and know they have it all. 

I still see nothing in this safe haven of land slanderers and the homeless makers of the forgotten way.