In July, the fair came to town; and one day I went alone after work. Due to the fact there was the smell of sweat, the brush of elbows, the pervasive taste of dirt, all the while I felt myself missing the people I had helped bury.
I want to be clear from the outset that Mike Tyson is not responsible for my suicide. He’s got enough demons of his own without me adding to his burden. It’s true that for a while there I got pretty obsessed by him and spent my evenings split between masturbating and watching clips of him on YouTube. These two activities were not related.
Stares were so sordid, especially when those that drew them were twenty years younger than him, wet as newborns, and only a little less naked. Think of them as children, the Minnesotan told himself. The more he did that, the more the milieu struck him as shot through with covert and subtle sorrow. Children never have to work so hard to enjoy themselves.
The Driver is cool and feels extra cool listening to tracks by bands like Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. Going fast up those windy switchback roads of a Pacific Northwest city that’s known for its rainy days and distorted indie rock, coffeehouses that are littered with singers who don’t sing and writers who don’t write. And the sad poets—oh the sad poets!