There is nothing exciting about driving on the long, bleak stretches of eastern Oklahoma highway at the end of winter. It has to be one of the most mind-numbing, energy sucking experiences that I’ve ever squeezed into toothpick propped eyes.
All dirty lakes and leafless trees,
The cloudly gray of winter breezes,
50 degrees settling on mournful shacks of Cherokee, Creek and once proud nations
Herded into reservations beside the road.
Bingo parlors call our names.
Dreary towns sleep just the same as the ones we saw before
How many more?
We are bored,
About to snore our van into an early retirement plan, an empty, roadside fruit stand,
Until our desperate twist of the dial picked up a rescue signal beaming the megabands of the past,
Indestructible guitar riffs built to last,
The electric bombastic flash of classic rock.
It started off well enough with Van Halen tryin’ to get us higher without David Lee Roth,
But then,…Jimi Hendrix rippin’ our faces off with his grinding, growling, gutteral whine,
And we turned downright giddy as could be,
Honkin’ our G# glee
Amazingly in the same key as Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid.”
Everything devoid of color bloomed into flowering beauty, without the LSD,
The trees had tie dyed leaves,
Stagnant lakes became an endless crystal sea,
Speeding expressway automobiles aligned in three part harmony
On our right, a gray-haired warrior rode the rugged enduring power of an ancient, mud encrusted, heavy duty Ford.
On our left, stetsoned ranchhands in BMW’s waved their surreal salute,
The cowboy and the Indian had become friends
Hovering hawks froze midair in the onrush of wind to breathe in the scene.
We were the kings of the highway,
Nothin’ could make this feelin’ go away
Until the dj was requested to play
That should have long ago been retired, retread of a Southern fried music terd,
Leonard Skynyrd’s Freebird.
What was that radio retard thinking?
Did he not realize that our very survival depended on the salvation of head banging rock?
I could picture that weasel mocking our desperate plight to arrive home safely in Austin.
“Ha, ha, ha! You must seek shelter in Elton John’s “Candle in the Wind.”
On the “lite rock station”
And then figure out what exactly “it” is that Phil Collins can feel coming in the air tonight,
Because “Freebird’s” more than 7 minutes long!
And the guitar solo goes on and on.”
I might be blowing this out of proportion, but I felt some sort of connection with the Indians,
Forced to subsist on a worn out, unproductive musical landscape
With my soul yearning for the raw, rugged raging majesty of my heritage.
Thankfully, Freebird was soon locked back in its cage,
We were getting close to the Texas border and the Doors were about to break on through to the other side,
Into a picture perfect paradise playland to drive,
‘Cause everyone knows
That there are no long, bland stretches of endlessly boring highway
Once you get into Texas.