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With no particular place to go

By jfarrell

(inspired by a chuck berry classic)

Riding along in my automobile;

Karla, my dragon, beside me at the wheel;

A bump, a burp; she blew up my car;

I hope we’re not walking far;

Grumbling and playing my radio,

With no particular place to go.

Walking along without a car;

My anger’s running far;

Karla grabs me, makes me dance;

I wanna kill her, want that chance;

Scowling “Let me go!”

With no particular place to go.

No particular place to go….

We’re walking home in the cold;

The moon was bright and low

And Karla looked bathed in gold;

Can you imagine how I felt?

Bright and red like a welt.

Walking along, about to blow a fuse;

My invisible dragon, she’s not much use;

Arsonist baby girl

Giggling as she burns the world;

Cuddling and playing my radio;

With no particular place to go.

I can still remember my grandfather’s minivan with vivid detail. Gray were the interiors and gray was the outside, although the painting was blue. How come? He never washed that old Voyager. Coated in dust like a breaded chicken breast prior to frying, that minivan took me and many others to magical places. Several were the hours that I would be crammed into the vehicle, together with my grandmother and cousins, like a bunch of pool balls squeezed perfectly into place in their rack. As the youngest, I would always seat in the third row, next to a heavy toolbox and a rusty can of WD-40, but a whole different thing it was when I was riding alone with my grandpa. I was the king. Riding shotgun, windows down, stereo all the way up, cranking hours and hours of what seemed as archaic music to me. Little did I know that this “archaic” music (AKA “jazz”) would become one of my favorite later in life. Somewhere in the messy central console, located between the two front seats, my grandfather always kept a glass (usually a red Solo cup) a bottle of Coke and a bottle of Appleton State, his favorite rum. Punctuality was one of his main traits, and as the punctual man he was, he would arrive 30 minutes earlier to any place he had to go. He figured he rather wait, turn the engine off, lay back in his seat and play some jazz while sipping on more than just one glass of rum with Coke instead of being in a rush. So it was not a surprise when I got out of school and I found him waiting (or sometimes even sleeping) in the parking lot, engine off, music up, glass full. Some days he would even bring me a bottle of juice, a ball cap and sunglasses to impress the ladies on my way out of the parking lot. Some other days we would drive to the beach and eat some shrimp, fresh and ready to peel. The Chrysler van then would take us to the shore, where we would park it and walk along the breakwater, all the way to the end of it, where the lighthouse stands. Time flew and we all got older, the minivan included. 83 years old, my grandfather was still driving that old, rusty, dirty and battered Voyager. The rear bumper had completely fallen off, one wheel did not match the other three and the seats were no longer seats, but racks for tools, buckets and machinery he kept hauling back and forth to the beach, to work in the construction of his beach house. The car seemed to have been through war, but no, it just had been through my grandfather’s life.    

I walk endless an road

locked into a heavy load

Of these questions and fears

Gripping from it's unreasonable tears

As a car roars by

I look dead into it's light

Wondering where it leads

But just like that it's gone

just like another day

As I wake up to the sun's harsh light

I try not to look back

As I attempt to fill this crack

Of this hurt and wonder

Unstoppable, a storm of rain and thunder

As a car roars by

I look dead into it's light

Wondering where it leads

But just like that it's gone

just like another night

As I stay up to the moon's hypnotic might

I keep him in the backseat

Racing across bridges

Within arms reach

Breaking borders

Bisecting dawn

I keep her in the backseat

Slowiy pass         flash blues-and-red

Withering within arms reach

Fixing perfection-built castles

Where now?

I keep it in the backseat

Nestled close to unwritten pages

Close enough does damage

Dont throw any more stars on my ceiling

Thing's ain't got stick like that no more

I keep death in the backseat

maybe just for me               or you 

(Verse 1)

A Attempting resistance 

D Refusing assistance

F#m Is the grass greener on the D other side

F#m P..p..p..please tell me why you E run and hide 

A Frivolous not serious 

D Hungry for attention 

F#mThinks the world revolves D around her

Or did I forget to E mention

(1st Chorus)

F#m Well Hollywood girl you should know things aren't D always about you

 If it A weren't for the money tell me E what would you do

F#m What are you good for  tell me D what's the use 

A Why should I bother no need to E introduce...Hollywood A girl...E Hollywood A girl 

(Verse 2)

A Rude and inconsiderate 

D Doesn't give a damn

F#m Yes no maybe I'm sick of it 

E Girl you're just a sham

A The truth is in your eyes 

D so you hide behind your shades 

F#m It's not Halloween so what's with the disguise 

E You're like a waking masquerade

(Bridge)

A Ready to change this time D aroundddd

F#m Seem so lost waiting to be E foundddd 

A Please tell me what I should D do 

F#m Cause my mind goes blank when it comes to E you  

(2nd Chorus)

F#m Well Hollywood girl you should know D things aren't always about you

A If it weren't for the money tell me E what would you do

F#m Dressed in designer clothes wearing D fancy shoes 

 A Driving around in whatever car E you choose 

F#m Yeah you might be a star but that's D old news 

F#m What are you good for D tell me what's the use 

A You know that you don't have a D purpose 

F#m You know you just aren't E worth it 

A Why should I bother no need to E introduce...Hollywood A girl...E Hollywood A girl 

E Hollywood girl A Hollywood A Girl 

Dear Drunk Driver,

  You may not know my name,

  You may not know my face.

  But your car will soon strike my body,

  And it shall take me from this place.

My blood will cloud your windshield,

My bones will crack like glass.

Of all the faces my eyes have seen,

Yours may just be the last.

  I'm not sure if I will live,

  I've never had that much luck.

  Remember me the next time you drive,

  I can only hope my message stuck.

My family they will miss me,

I never even said goodbye.

And because you decided you can drive,

They may just watch me die.

  I know you think it wasn't much,

  you had to drink that night.

  If you are so sure of that,

  Why was my body clouded from your sight.

I do not want to die, Drunk driver.

I think i am too young.

How can you end my life so quickly,

when its only just begun.

  So before you say it is safe,

  That you didn't have alot to drink.

  Remember my broken and battered body,

  I hope it makes you think.

Sincerely,

A dead body.

My Dad, oh my dad! He has a passion for old cars. This passion has been growing since the day he was born. His mom did not know, but right now it is an interest that overflows. So many cars he has had: Mustang, Trans am, Corvette, but what he likes most are the old ones. For him, old cars have more value than a new one; it is not about money, but about a sentimental value. When he is in the highway and feels that the air passes throw, there are many ways to think about his youth. It is a flashback to decade of seventies or maybe to his own beliefs. He thinks that cars are more than a medium of transportation, they are his faithful memories. An old car can ride him wherever he wants, even though the speed is not that high. He does not prefer trucks or cars, both of them are the same, what just matters is the age. He uses a roof as garage; he does not want his old cars get full of trash. Oh! My dad, He has a wonderful time because his cars have no grime. He has a black Chevrolet Cheyenne seventy nine, every day he watches it, it makes him smile. Also he has a brown Chevy Nova seventy four, the same that he had before. He develops his sense of sight, nobody knows why but he loves just to observe every detail of the cars. These cars make him drive strong, at the rhythm of the songs. Every single day, he has to admire the beauty of life. Oh! My Dad, He loves his old cars more than his own house. Day after day, he makes me promise that when he dies I will keep them in the house. The old cars won’t run at a high speed anymore, but they are not just cars, they are a reason to be alive. The Cheyenne and Chevy Nova are part of his history, that is why he keeps them as a precious treasure. He cannot wait to see his cars; it is part of his daily life. These cars help him to remember when he was still a teenager. There is not anymore that brown hair or that thin body, but he does not care because he has his Chevrolet. This passion is part of his personality, without it, he won’t be my daddy.