Disappointment is, it seems to me, the most accurate response to most human activity. I was struck by disappointment this week watching the Republican National Convention. You may remember the convention’s controversial opening rite, where a goat flown in from the developing world was sacrificed over a marble bust of Ronald Reagan and then venerated by delegates. Watching the sacrifice, I thought, “Man, this is pretty disappointing.”
I was also disappointed recently by a couple driving incidents. Humans, and especially Massachusetts humans, grow more disappointing behind the wheel. For whatever reason–the power of the vehicle, the distance driving creates, the separation of metal and glass–ugliness surfaces more easily in drivers.
Compounding my disappointment in these drivers was the fact that, in both case, I was recipient of rage while doing each driver a courtesy. I was backing up. I was making room. I was trying my best.
The first disappointment came in Holyoke, Massachusetts. I was unable to decipher my new enemy’s wrath–I believe he told me I lacked intelligence, though, and that I should go somewhere and do something to myself. The driver’s anger sprang from the void; I was too surprised to anger. Driving away, I chuckled where I might ordinarily steam. I found myself strangely grateful to this driver. In his easily and improbably ignited rage, he encapsulated everything I’ve ever found amiss about Massachusetts.
The second disappointment came a couple days after. This time no words or animal sounds were proffered me–only a glare and hand gesture. With my Holyoke epiphany still fresh in mind, I was ready with a response. “Damn you, Massachusetts,” I sighed. But as the car drove away, the license plate deflated my condemnation. New York. I guess Massachusetts has no monopoly on vehicular impropriety.
But all this is just prelude. This post is really about Jonathan Richman.
When I drive, I listen to Jonathan Richman. Most recently, I’ve listened to a live album of his early band, The Modern Lovers, “Precise Modern Lovers Order,” and also a compilation of the same group, “Songs of Remembrance.” The albums contain a few versions of the signature Modern Lovers song, “Roadrunner.” “Roadrunner” has been on repeat the last week as a balm for my driving woes, and here’s why: Richman, a Boston native, is filled with an entirely different emotion when he drives. Driving–driving in Massachusetts in particular–fills him with indiscriminate love.
In “Roadrunner,” Richman sings about what he loves. Prone to improvisation, Richman sings different loves with each version of “Roadrunner.” What all these professions express is clear: when he drives, when he has the radio on, he loves everything.
Here’s a partial list, compiled from a few versions of “Roadrunner,” of what Richman loves: the world, the modern world, God’s world, God’s girls, modern girls, the highway, the suburbs, neon lights, rock and roll, AM radio, the dark, the night, buildings, industrial parks, loneliness, bleakness, Massachusetts, Massachusetts when it’s dark, Massachusetts when it’s cold.
Where some drivers shout profanities, Richman shouts professions of love. This contrast couldn’t be any more refreshing, and it’s inspired me. Now, I may not be advanced enough emotionally to start doing the same when I drive, but I’ve resolved to try. The next time a driver growls at me, I’m going to blow that driver a big kiss. And I’m going to try like hell to mean it.