while i was on the road this morning, i was at an intersection next to a guy in a little gmc pickup. a heavily tattoed arm hanging out of the window, military cut hair, small mustache, unnecessary sunglasses. styx was blaring from the open window. I thought of a review in this week's new yorker: Like a mighty cockroach, the much maligned genre of arena rock has survived the nuclear assaults of punk, disco, hip-hop, alternative, and grunge and kept on rocking like the seventies never ended. Despite enormous indifference on the part of the public, both Styx and Bad Company are touring, although in somewhat reduced circumstances (in Styx's case, without lead singer Dennis DeYoung, and in Bad Company's case, without much hair.) Expect needless theatrics and more gratuitous solos than you can wave a lighter at. he (gmc dude) went his way and i went mine, which was to the store. i had $9 left in the world and managed to buy $8.95 worth of stuff. I was pleased with the way that worked out. when i was on the road again, i was flipping through the radio dial when i hit a sermon. it was more or less about drugs. at full tilt, the preacher was like little richard without a band; when he slowed down for an aside he was articulate and had a slight lisp. he said: "why try to move a car when clark kent is in it? just talk to him. tell him to change clothes." when i got back to my apartment, there was a wrecked car on the street about two houses down from my place. a little toyota with the whole front end crushed. i haven't been able to find out how that happened.