On the Roadish

Last night I had to pick up my daughter at the high school after what I thought was volleyball practice. Instead she had a game, so I was sitting there in an empty parking lot more than an hour before the team's bus was due to arrive from the game.

Not a problem.

I almost always have a book (this time it was The Monkey Wrench Gang), I had four CDs with me, and I had stopped off at the grocery store before heading over to the high school so I had a bag of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, peanuts, ginger ale, apples, grapes, bananas, cheese, plus a few other things. I was all set.

So I popped in Chris Knight, rolled down the windows so I could hear it, and ate fried chicken, drank a ginger ale, and finished off some peanuts, throwing the bones in a bucket that's rattling around in the bed of my truck and the shells just got tossed in the bed. Just leaning against the truck and thinking about high school and life as I know it in Holliston, Mass. Which is not to say it's all good. It all sounds romantic and On the Roadish, but there's comes a point in your life where you have either have to make changes or die (and sometimes a metaphorical death is worse than the real thing: your eyes are still open) and I think I'm at that point.