tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3288233386277872429.post7201603976518621355..comments2020-10-22T18:40:53.585-07:00Comments on The Misadventures of... Martini Mike!: Strange Days"Martini Mike"http://www.blogger.com/profile/00594215462210584205noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3288233386277872429.post-25553722914959112162009-03-09T21:55:00.000-07:002009-03-09T21:55:00.000-07:00We went mining that day for memories in the cockpi...We went mining that day for memories in the cockpit of a convertible. It was a convertible that was different than the one from my youth. The convertible of my youth was long and bronze colored from the year 1974. Its top was ripped and its hinges rusted, but its motor had been redone and ran strong enough for youthful adventure. But that car was long gone, it had been scrapped, and now, there we were, going down the road in a small black machine, new and quick, you could feel the acceleration as we approached the opening in the mountains, and the small mining town, turned tourist trap, slash, artist colony on the outskirts of the Capital, it reeked quaint, but that was just the entrance way to the caves we were mining. From there we descended into the Capital, sitting in the renovated buildings of colonialism, pondering how even in my short time, the setting had changed. It didn’t really matter, since there’s no going back, the vain that we had tapped into there was dry, and there was nothing that really reminded me of those days on the road, but the journey wasn’t over yet. Instead, we decided to go further, to climb back into the cockpit of the sports car, only half the size of the copper behemoth that had chugged along on highways and back roads, guzzling precious OPEC at prices that were unimaginable in its day of creation. The little black convertible with fuel injection, lacking any of the characteristics of the 455 V8 that inhabited the copper casing of 74. We rode on, going deeper to the core of my memories. We were heading into the valley; it was there that all my memories remained like oil stains on the crumbled streets and weed driveways beneath cottonwoods, and the sun was disappearing from the copper colored sky.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18387279443138810336noreply@blogger.com