For most of the trip, I listened to the radio. My fave station, 106.9, played all the best songs: Rod Stewart's "Forever Young," Escape Clubs "Wild, Wild West,"and Tone Loc's "Funky Cold Medina." See? All the great songs. During a commercial for a new singles station located in the 100s of our local cable provider, I dug in my Dooney and Bourke knock-off purse to get grab my cassingle. I also grabbed my five nickels.
I was just 10 minutes from the turnpike entrance, and I was screaming along with Steven Tyler. I was in the zone.
Run Away. Run Away from the pai-ay-ay-ay-ayn.
Run Away. Run Away from the pai-ay-ay-ayn.
Janie's got a gun.
Her dog day's just begun.
Now everybody's on the run.
I was beating the steering wheel. I was tapping my feet. I was live! On stage with the band! And by on-stage, I mean on highway 51 in a Chrysler LeBaron.
I pulled up to the railroad crossing. I stopped, like a good and attentive driver. I rolled down my window because my priority was singing and not paying attention to where I was. Then I threw my five nickels right out that window.
This wasn't just a silly little act of a ditzy college sophomore. This was a public act, witnessed by the cars behind me and coming from the other side of the tracks. I drove on.
I did not take the turnpike, but that's just the way it is when you're a rock star. I don't think Steven Tyler takes the turnpike either.
