The Boy in the Car Had a Dream of Her in the Desert
“I was E. Bloom, then Richard Hell, Joe Strummer and John Doe.”
I brought that quote up to a roomful of Asian-American Stanford students talking about identity with an author/teacher friend of mine. It’s a perfect example of how people try on and discard identities as they learn and grow. The kids had never heard the Minutemen. Or even heard of the Minutemen. They may have heard of Joe Strummer. But I think most of them got what I was on about. Still, it strikes me, as I have no real idea how to introduce myself. I could be flip and say that I’m a writer/designer/filmmaker with a brown guitar who once lived next to the Port of Los Angeles. I could be honest and say that I’m the spawn of California’s Central Valley, but nobody since Merle Haggard’s been able to make that cool.
I could go on about a lot of things, but pieces of my bio are scattered all over the internet and tonight I was reminded of my youthful propensity to talk far too much. Mostly, I’m interested in my co-pilot for this journey. She’s sweet-natured and iron-fisted and to be honest, I’ve never quite figured her out. Which I think she likes, despite the fact that she’s made a career out of explaining things. I do know that she’s a looker and that she’s smart and that she owns a Joy Division shirt. Which, if I’m to be entirely honest, could mean that I’m a dead man.
I also know that I am not allowed to play “Super Trouper” in the car, which kinda makes me sad; I thought it’d add a nice Scandanavian sheen to the Marfa Lights. I suppose I could bring a jar of lutefisk and a wooden Björn Borg racquet instead.
