The new drunk drivers (have hoisted the flag)

Every so often — and some need it more often than others (and I fall into the needing-it-more-often camp) — an infusement of unexpectedly exhilirating stimulus is needed to remind yourself that life isn’t as boring as you’re usually convinced that it is. Most of my day-in, day-out life revolves around a damn fine cup of coffee, my stop-and-start writing career, and hanging with friends. There are small peaks and valleys, and very occasionally massive peaks and valleys, but mostly my existence just churns along at a pace necessary to get things done. Like everyone else’s. But to convince myself that I’m not flatlining in my mid-thirties, I’ve increasingly needed jolts of energy from the outside world. Usually there can be only one thing for it: road trip.

I just got back from nine days in the midwest. The first two were spent in Dayton, Ohio, which, it should no longer news to anyone, is the home of Bob Pollard of Guided By Voices, my favorite band. The event was a gathering of Pollard’s most rabid fans, somewhere (according to various estimates) between 50 and 90 strong, and none of us were disappointed when this happened, very unexpectedly:

Countless beers were consumed over two days (actually, I did count: 33), but more importantly, friendships were forged, as was a bizarre love for cornhole, which Pollard refers to as “gay horseshoes,” and has become a new source of Sellers-ridicule. Plus, my arm was signed by Pollard thusly: “John, I never called you a pussy. Love, Bob” (see page 161 of Perfect From Now On). He added that what he’d actually called me back in 2004 was “pus-y,” as in resembling pus.

In short, Dayton ruled.

I’ll post about my week in Chicago tomorrow. Time to make the proverbial doughnuts, or at least eat them. Mmm…proverbial doughnuts.

I gained ten pounds on the road trip.