Why do we love Abivablog? This is why:

"I've got to blog this," I thought, looking up at the pylons of the George Washington Bridge, solid and shining against a picture-blue sky, as "Sexual Healing" played on the radio. I was dancing in the driver's seat, jigging, shimmying and cackling as my car expertly shouldered between a towering truck and bus. (Yes, I can drive and dance at the same time. I regard driving as a form of dancing and rock'n'roll as a navigational aid.)

A few hours before, I was thinking, "This is like being a slave to an idiot." And I knew he was feeling, "This is like being a beached manatee ordered to jump through hoops by a sadistic ringmaster." It was that bad. Then my helper came, the guy who will come whenever I want because I overpay him, the luxury I allow myself only once in a blue moon, the guy J doesn't like because he talks too much, but is pretty funny if you actually listen to him. I know he is strong, he is grateful, he is familiar, and when he's with J I leave the house without looking back and forget it all exists. I become an amnesiac, adrift without a past, without a home, and time slows way down as I drift to Starbucks, to the bus station, ride the bus for what seems like hours but is barely half an hour, get off in Teaneck and notice how good it smells, of trees and things -- if it smells this good just in Teaneck f**king New Jersey, think how good it will smell all the time in Chapel Hill, restoring this whole missing chunk of life."

Sadly, Annie is mistaken: in Chapel Hill the pollen is so bad no one smells anything.

This entry was posted by Michael Reynolds, on Thursday, August 17, 2006. You can leave your response.