I told someone the other day that the most boring drive of my life was from Chicago to Kansas City. I’ve done some pretty boring drives: I16 from Macon to I95 (fuck you, Kite, GA!), LA to San Francisco (or thereabouts), any US road with three (3) or more CVSs, I40 through Oklahoma and the hat of Texas (is that what the square dingleberry that holds Amarillo is called?). Hell, even the drive from Kansas City to High Hill (preceded by Manhattan, KS to Kansas City and followed by the nine hundred miles to Richmond and my first viewing of The Matrix at Chip, Steve, and Billy’s place in The Fan) was more exciting than the drive that contained its inverse from High Hill to Kansas City. This shitty, flat, and radio-silent drive began at Swim Cafe.

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Composed over 2.5 years with the goal of embedding a collection of words meant to seduce search engines.

It is a challenge to get this down after being distanced by yet another move. But, very shortly after he helped load a truck with all my belongings for a move to Eugene (Oregon) and pronounced me dead to Atlanta the mayor and (at the time) sole resident of Brian Town swooped into verdant late summer Oregon to buy some texts at Powell’s and kick it in Hood River at a Petrushka family reunion.

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