Some call me Maurice

There's something euphoric about screaming down the highway in your wife's mustang on a friday afternoon. Is it the fact that tomorrow morning i can shut the alarm clock off, or even my better, rip the plug out of the socket instead of heading off to class? Maybe it's the growl of the engine and knowing that i can pass anyone i like, whenever i like (That may not sound like anything earth-shattering but its pretty great if you normally drive a tired old lunch box on wheels - 91 s10 Blazer 180,000 miles on the odometer/238,900 = three quarters of the distance to the moon). I think the frosting on the cake was Steve Miller's Greatest Hits pumping out of the speakers and the wind in my hair. The Joker, The Smoker, The Midnight Toker. Let's not forget The Space Cowboy nor the Gangster of Love. They were all there. It reminded me of another fall day, and another reckless paced drive down the highway. I seem to remember weaving in and out of orange construction cones (a gauntlet of sorts)thrity or fourty miles above the speed-limit. Perhaps i will have to dedicate future blogs to the near death experiences (yes thats plural) i had while driving my first car. Bruce (RIP).
For now, i will head back down the highway. Studying awaits. Oh Joy.