I learned that part of being alive is screaming your heart out to something. Anything. That sometimes crying and listening to the Rent soundtrack is a good thing. A necessary thing. And, most of all, I learned that some of the best thinking is done on long, silent drives.
The soft, thick leather of the steering wheel begged for a gentle touch; the engine's natural rumble was backed up by Audi's turbocharged powerplant; and the 505-watt Bang & Olufsen sound system bumped harder than anyone would ever need.
As the whacka-whacka guitar intro of Van Halen’s “Atomic Punk” fills my head, I pick up the pace and David Lee Roth’s shriek segues into Led Zeppelin’s strutting “Black Dog.”
There are a few of us having a fancy meal and drinking a douchey French rosé called Ruse le Douche, talking about how dissecting comedy is awful. It’s the show’s host, the playwright, my girlfriend, and myself. I should have gotten more stoned.