I knew a real woman once.
We shared a love of rough, true freedom
and gritty, honest romance.
Honest romance, mind you.
Not that Hollywood, silver screen, sitcom horse-shit.
I'm talking about a motorcycle ride through the desert,
on the way to hold up a liquor store,
only to politely steal a bottle of bourbon & all the cash in the till.
Just so there's something to drink
while making one immense donation
to a piss-poor soup kitchen
on the very hardest end of town,
then intentionally getting arrested
with a big,
drunk,
shit eating,
Cheshire grin that will last from the squad car to the holding cell,
from the courtroom to the pen,
and all the way to the gallows.
Still holding a death grip on the worst of attitudes,
and the goddamn best of intentions.
THAT, my friends, is true romance.
And that beautiful woman,
she not only understood it,
she tried to live it.
We should all be trying to live it.
Jon Cass is three sheets to the wind & headed wherever it blows him. When taking a break from the truck stop living, he holes up in Brooklyn, New York. Tomorrow, who knows? It'll probably depend on a coin flip.
