THE MACHINE

As I said...I’m still a little hung over, so we need to find food. The Machine.
That’s what I’m calling her. She’s a 2013 Mustang convertible. Pure rage, ragtop and rubber. I need to get to Santa Monica and the beach, and I need to get there fast. No time for diversions. No economy cars, no compacts, no midsize suburbans  or coffee cup holder buggies. I can’t  impede my thinking with mediocrity  when it comes to Los Angelses transportation. You never know who may be trailing you in these parts. I need food and a cold drink fast!.  The sun will work wonders on this hang over I’m thinking.     “Woman!...roll down the ragtop!”,  the director howls at the blue sky…. " I think I see the sky bleeding into the pacific!"   We race through West Hollywood. The rag rolls down.  As  her long  red hair catches the new warm  breeze,  the rush of wind noise sweeps into The  Machine.  The Heroine slowly gazes toward the oceant, and with her red lipstick remarks, " I need cigarettes.”