Marc Spitz

i went to see the joan rivers movie with my mum the other day and we were crossing the street by lincoln center and she said, “do you ever miss driving,” and i didn’t up until that moment but all of a sudden i was like, “yeah. yeah i fucking miss driving.” on a day like today, i’d have hopped in my car, cranked the air (maybe rolled window down a half inch to let out cig smoke) put on my shades and played some led zeppelin. i’d go nowhere and everywhere at once. i live next to a parking garage. every day when i walk out onto the street, someone is hopping in their ride. it’s a pretty fancy block so it’s usually a lexus or some shit. i also live around the corner from a classic car warehouse. and three days out of the week, i cross the west side highway, the very motorway i’d take up to bennington every spring and fall. i almost bought a car with the advance of my fourth book, a few years ago. it was more than enough for a ride. i’m going to get some wheels with the next. so when it’s 96 degrees in the shade and my world is smashing out big books in tiny apartments then mixing with fucking lunatics in public spaces every time i get some air or walk the hounds i can at least be in love with my car and get a feel for my automobile.

working on final eight jagger chapters. hoping to have a really ugly draft by independence day. reading about the blues. nobody’s ever written a song about reading about the blues. not muddy waters or junior wells or eric clapton or jeffrey lee pierce. jack white should write one.