Perfect Road

The lack of a good book eats me up. I finished Tropic of Cancer a few days ago. Yesterday I was so bored, I actually read through my copy of last year SI Swimsuit Edition. Yes, I own a copy. I read about all of the luxury resorts where the photographers and models stay. Places such as these are too perfect. I don't want a gaggle of people asking me what I want all the time. May I get you that, get you this. My room is a great resort. I get privacy and all the comforts of home. I have a shower. I do not have internet access, though.

Last night when I was riding my bike, I coasted over the evidence of a profound truth. That truth: Where money is, nice things are. Not in the ways one would expect, either. There are the obvious things, of course. And signs one has to feel around a bit to notice. While I was riding my bike, I noticed that nice cars were popping up. And as that little observation, like a pleasant bubble, expanded to a proper size within my brain, the road surrendered itself. Like a virgin too tired it was, and sweeter. I tell you, the road was as smooth as baby's bottom. Not a bump to disturb my straight course. I could have worn a blindfold and taken my hands off the handle bars and still ridden all night through the streets of that wealthy paradise, all without a care in the world. The smoothness, like that of a baby's bottom or like that of sanded balsa wood, was delicious. I wonder how the folks over there made that road so smooth.

Does the city pay for it knowingly. Do they let all the other roads go to shit but keep the best ones hidden like a secret in back road neighborhoods.

Some political and economic points occurred to me. Fuck them. I just want to think about how perfect that road was.