What did ’60s people mean by “it’s a gas”? Something like “it blows my mind, it’s trippy, it’s exciting,” I think. Wasn’t there. Were they thinking of inhalants, huffing gas fumes? Or laughing gas, at the dentist’s office? Probably the latter. Wait, no, maybe it was just about the fuel to make a hot rod go – mostly about the excitement.
Whatever the answer, life is a gas, and it blows my mind, and it’s trippy, and exciting. Too much of the last one, unfortunately, but one can abide. I think of the laughing gas. I laugh under stress sometimes, like when I was a six year old shepherd in a school play and lost it completely, or when I annoyed my husband by weirding out at the hospital.
I remember when my homeboy was trying to go on a road trip, with me and my brother, and his car gave up the ghost at freeway speed. We were slumping to a stop while a chu-chunk sound played to the tune of “when johnny comes marching home again.” I started laughing. I remember when we did manage to actually undertake that road trip, and a map put us on something one would barely consider a road, with giant chunks missing and boulders in the way, in the rain in the middle of the night. The gas tank had a “remaining miles” display which was ticking down from two to one to zero super slowly as we struggled up a gradual incline that never seemed to end. Inappropriate jokes, stifled laughs.
We finally crested that hill as dawn broke and the remaining miles jumped up to ten, gravity helping us out. I hope we all crest this hill together, and in the meantime, I hope my coping mechanisms don’t get too annoying.
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