Some woman just drove my car away.
She put the keys in the ignition, cranked the air and drove it right out of my life.
My dad sold Josephine and he didn't tell me until about twenty minutes ago where he showed up with the buyer.
A sharp amputation, a quick and jagged snap -- now you see it, now you don't.
In the words of countless country and blues singers -- my baby just drove outta my life.
Josephine was my car and I loved her. This woman won't love her. She won't know what kind of music Josephine likes (classic rock). She'll crank the air instead of opening the windows and letting the sunshine in. This woman won't be able to differentiate between the noises Josephine makes. Hell, this woman won't even know that Josephine's a she or why she's called Josephine (in honor of George Thorogood's Ride On, Josephine). To this woman, it's nothing more than her new car.
Paps always used to heckle me for how much I loved her. Said it was stupid to personify a vehicle. Joke if I wasn't careful, my car would end up turning into Christine. I told him if she ever did, he'd be the first passenger.
Silly, really. To humanize a vehicle this much. Silly, really. To type a blog post while tears blur my vision. Silly, really to care so much about a car.
But she was mine. My first and your first anything, be it car, kiss, guitar, joint or oyster, forever captures a part of you.
She gave me a sense of freedom I had never known before. She opened up this whole new world for me. She finally illuminated everything Bruce Springsteen was talking about when he talked about pink cadillacs and highways jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive.
She was mine and I loved her and now she's gone. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.
She put the keys in the ignition, cranked the air and drove it right out of my life.
My dad sold Josephine and he didn't tell me until about twenty minutes ago where he showed up with the buyer.
A sharp amputation, a quick and jagged snap -- now you see it, now you don't.
In the words of countless country and blues singers -- my baby just drove outta my life.
Josephine was my car and I loved her. This woman won't love her. She won't know what kind of music Josephine likes (classic rock). She'll crank the air instead of opening the windows and letting the sunshine in. This woman won't be able to differentiate between the noises Josephine makes. Hell, this woman won't even know that Josephine's a she or why she's called Josephine (in honor of George Thorogood's Ride On, Josephine). To this woman, it's nothing more than her new car.
Paps always used to heckle me for how much I loved her. Said it was stupid to personify a vehicle. Joke if I wasn't careful, my car would end up turning into Christine. I told him if she ever did, he'd be the first passenger.
Silly, really. To humanize a vehicle this much. Silly, really. To type a blog post while tears blur my vision. Silly, really to care so much about a car.
But she was mine. My first and your first anything, be it car, kiss, guitar, joint or oyster, forever captures a part of you.
She gave me a sense of freedom I had never known before. She opened up this whole new world for me. She finally illuminated everything Bruce Springsteen was talking about when he talked about pink cadillacs and highways jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive.
She was mine and I loved her and now she's gone. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.
0 comments on "Ride On, Josephine"
Post a Comment