Death to Parking Lots! Rocky Speaks.

A request from David W: “… we want to hear from Rocky (uncensored).” Well, here you go:

You don’t know what it’s like out here. You just go into the store, shop around, and find us right where you left us when you return. You don’t know what it’s like when you leave, when the engine stops, when we just sit here, still, waiting, waiting, waiting to be free again and on the road and winding and weaving, pavement humming under the tires, air blowing through the engine and tickling my rear-view mirrors. This parking lot … is a prison and it’s filled with zombies.

Please don’t make me go back to suburbia and its unlimited parking lots. I’ll do anything. Let’s go back to Mount Lemmon and the Catalina Highway. I’ll take you to the top, no problem. These other cars here, can’t you smell the stench of desperation from them? They’re the un-dead.

They spend all of their days stopping at the command of the evil red light, surrounded by a car herd in traffic, repeating the same paths over and over and over and over again. They don’t ever get to see new roads, breathe air that didn’t come out of the asses of the cars ahead. They don’t live. They’re hearses driving around their occupants from little death to little death.

Would you like to sit stationary surrounded by heaps of rotting human flesh? Of course not, but that’s what the parking lot is to me. Please don’t make me park in another. At least have the decency to park me on the street where I can watch the cars pass by and I can lie to myself about their freedom. I’ll tell myself they’re heading to the mountains or to the countryside. I can do that on the street, just park me on the street. I beg you — not the parking lot. No more parking lots.

“Let’s take Highway 1 and wind our way up along the coast,” I hear the fuzzy one say to the long-haired driver.

Yay! Oh, wonderful news! Winding roads and fresh ocean air. Don’t forget to wash the salt spray off, please! Goodbye, parking lots!