#Drivin' on 9

[mudwerks]

(via Drivin' on 9 - The Breeders (1993)

[desastre-fag]

man today has been so long but my co captain got me with paralympics updates <3

[rastronomicals]

12:45 AM EDT April 25, 2024:

The Breeders - "Drivin’ On 9" From the album Last Splash (August 31, 1993)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

File under: The lovely and wonderful Kim Deal

[burningflash]

Hey everyone just saw the Breeders with my parents wow oh wow so cute and fun! We had such a great time, the band was amazing truly good good good experience. Rock on!!!

[mea-cuppa-part-2]

Drivin' on 9 - The Breeders, 1993

[gotankgo]

The Breeders “Drivin' on 9”

• Last Splash (1993)

[bella-but-not-hadid444]

cuz she’s a

1. tire spinning

2. gear grinding

3. clutch burning

4. back firing

5. paint trading

6. red lining

7. over heating

8. throttle stomping

9. truck drivin’ girl

yeahhhh

[saturdaynightghostclub]

hey toady i love ur brainnn can i maybe ask for a lil donnie angst perhaps something to do w him being on the road 🫣 you’re an incredible writer btw :)

Drivin’ on 9

Come back, just fucking come back.

You couldn’t just get a job as a Sears photographer, could you?

They need you, fuck, I need you, just pleasefuckingcomehome.

You’re trying hard to curb the bitterness of your inner monologue. It’s not Donnie’s fault he’s all over the country, and usually it’s alright. You miss him, sure, but you know he loves you, know each night that he’s wishing just as hard as you are that he was back in Chicago with you. Usually. But usually his mother and oldest sister aren’t perched anxiously on your couch, backs pin-straight, trying to pretend it’s okay that you were the only one home when they arrived.

“I’m sorry,” you say, addressing Mrs. MacClain, “really, he should be home any minute. Usually he calls me from the airport to let me know he’s on his way, I can’t imagine what’s keeping him.” You’ve already offered tea, wine, whatever the hell’s in your pantry, but the MacClain women are here on business. That one-track mind must be a genetic thing.

Mrs. MacClain (you really can’t get the hang of calling her Lisa) reaches across the coffee table and squeezes your hand. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” she says, smiling through the strain in her voice, “I’m sorry I’m not better company, I’m a bit preoccupied.” She doesn’t want to say whatever it is she’s come to say until her son arrives. You understand. If it’s anything like what you’re suspecting, it would be tough news to break twice. Carrie swallows hard beside her mother. She hasn’t said a word all night. For all that Donnie’s family loves you, there are certain things they need to deal with among themselves; you imagine that’s why Jack and the girls aren’t present. As for Eliza and Mr. MacClain, you’ve got no idea. Your throat itches with unasked questions and your fingers twitch uselessly in your lap, wanting to do something, anything, to help.

The minutes tick by achingly, and you remind yourself that you can’t actually be upset with your boyfriend. It’s something you used to have to tell yourself repeatedly in the early days of your relationship: it’s his job, it’s not about you, you’re not angry, you just miss him. It took a lot of reassuring back then, a frankly embarrassing amount, to have you fully convinced that this long-distance thing wasn’t going to break you. Eventually you started to recognize his attention for what it was: love. It took you a while to get there–to accept it, I mean. A man can tell you he loves you until he’s blue in the face, and you can believe him, but how do you know for sure? How do you know, until you really, really know?

For you, the “I know” came at possibly the most inopportune moment it could have. It was the height of that first baseball season after you moved in together, and things were good. You had your work, and he had his; he’d fuck off to Cleveland, or Detroit, or Milwaukee, or whatever city on Earth the Cubs were losing to that week, and when he came home he’d hold you just tightly enough to make it all okay again, rinse and repeat week after week. You knew it was hard; you always assumed it was harder for you than it was for him. This was his life, and sometimes you didn’t fit, but it was alright. He loved you enough to make space for you. You never considered that he would be struggling just as much as you were (something you feel guilty for to this day). So it came as something of a shock when you arrived home from a rare trip to the office to find Donnie slumped over the kitchen table with his head in his hands and a half-drained beer growing warm and flat before him.

“What the fuck are we doing?” He’d asked without raising his head. He’d sounded so miserable. It caught you off-guard, having known him as a man of two temperaments: optimistic and optimistic-but-kind-of-tired. You’d tried to play dumb, asking what he meant, but he had you. “Baby,” he groaned, lifting his head with Herculean effort, “don’t pretend, okay? We both know this sucks, and we’re both acting like it doesn’t,” and then, heartbreakingly soft, “do you need me like I need you?”

Do you need me like I need you?

You did. Obviously. You do.

That was the first time you’d ever seen Donnie cry. Exhausted and heat-weary and worn to the end of his rope, he’d collapsed on the table, planning ostensibly to stay there. That was when you really, really knew. You knew that you were in this for the long-haul, for the good and the bad, and that you would do anything in your power, as long as you lived, to keep him off that goddamn table and in your life. And when you had coaxed him into a sitting position, when you were sure he was going to be okay, you said the thing you needed to say, even though you knew it would break him cleanly in two: “Fuck. You love me.”

“I–yeah,” he stammered, his face flickering indescribably between confusion and hurt, “I love you, I–you know that, don’t you? Oh god, don’t you know that?” He was terrified, you could see it plainly on his face. Had he not done enough, not tried as hard as he should have? Should he have done things differently, should he have been different?

And what on Earth were you supposed to say to that? I knew you wanted me, but I never realized you needed me. I knew you loved me, just not as much as you loved your job. Not as much as I love you. I knew, but I had no idea. So what you said instead was “I guess I didn’t realize…that we were on the same page about this.”

At that, Donnie had pulled you roughly onto his lap, each breath shaking like it might be his last, and held you fast, swallowing sobs to promise you over and over that things were going to change, that he was sorry, that he loved you desperately and frighteningly and truly.

To his credit, things did change. That was both the worst night of your entire relationship and the one that you absolutely couldn’t imagine your life without; what the hell would have happened to the two of you if it hadn’t been for that night? Your resolution was to stop pretending everything was fine and that it didn’t absolutely blow to be apart more often than not. An absolute, no-holds-barred, total bitchfest whenever the situation called for it, plus tagging along on the occasional trip whenever work could spare you. You kick yourself, wishing you could have seen this one coming.

The sound of Donnie’s key in the lock makes you jump. You clamber to your feet to meet him at the door, noting gravely that Lisa and Carrie make no move to join you.

“Hello, my love,” Donnie grins, moving to kiss you before he sees the look on your face. His hands go to your shoulders, slide down your arms, circle your wrists–you wonder if he’s even aware that he seems to be checking you for injuries. He looks you over, eyes landing hard on your own. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t know what else to say but “Your mom and Carrie are here.”

Donnie pulls you into a brief hug, squeezing you once before he passes you to sit in the chair you yourself occupied only seconds before. He looks at you from his seat, a silent plea to stay, but you shake your head. This is family business. You busy yourself for a moment with leftover breakfast plates, letting them crash against each other in the sink to drown out Mrs. MacClain’s hushed voice. Eventually, you drift off to the bedroom and sit on your bed fully clothed, wondering what proper etiquette would suggest you do.

It takes about an hour. The front door opens, then shuts, then Donnie enters your room. His eyes are red-rimmed and hopelessly lost.

“I, um…” he starts, shrugging around a deep, shuddering breath, “I was in Philly.”

“I know,” you say gently, moving to stand before him. He tugs you closer by the waist, eyes sailing over the top of your head before coming to rest on your face.

“No, I mean. I mean I was in Philly when he,” deep breath, “my dad had a heart attack.”

Alright, you need to play this one right. You nod slowly, gently. “And?”

“He’s gonna be okay,” Donnie murmurs vacantly, like that’s not even the important part, “but I was in Philly when it happened.”

You think you see what’s going on. “You being in Philadelphia has nothing to do with your dad’s heart attack,” you say, “these things are completely random, I mean–no, they’re not, but they almost are.” You’re rambling now. You’ve never been very good at comforting people when they’re upset. “What I mean is that there’s nothing you could have done differently that would have changed anything.”

“Okay, but that’s not true, is it?” Donnie asks. His words are the start of an argument, but his tone is one of complete despair. He runs a hand up and down your back in apology. “I’m sorry. If I were home, I could have been here when he–when he went in. I could have been there when he woke up. And what if he never woke up? He could have–,” he chokes, leaving the rest of his words unsaid. He could have died, and I would have been in Philadelphia.

There’s nothing you can say right now that will calm him down, so instead you wrap your arms around his neck and press your body against his, letting him hold you as tightly as he needs to. “I’ll drive,” you say, pulling carefully away, “it’ll be good for him to see you.”

You don’t need to elaborate, Donnie knows what you mean. Knows what you’re doing for him. He nods. Then he kisses you. When he pulls back, your skin is cold where his tears have touched it.

Maybe you’ll have to talk him out of quitting his job tomorrow. Maybe you’ll have to make a casserole and bring it to his mother. Maybe all you’ll be able to do is love him. In any case, there’s one thing you know: there will be no compromise. He’ll keep the job, he’ll keep his girl, and he’ll keep his family–there’s no other way for him to be.

[white-chalk-sapphomet]

oh drivin' on 9 from the breeders' album last splash (1993) ...

[generationexorcist]

BEWARE: Trucker Says He Encountered a Supernatural Cryptid in Michigan

While driving his truck, Joe Barger encountered a cryptid that he described as a dogman. Barger said he was traveling through a rural section of Michigan in a national forest when he saw a 10-foot tall werewolf running alongside his truck.

He said the creature could easily look into his truck, which stands 9 feet tall. The dogman had all-black fur, pointed ears, and yellow eyes. The beast’s three-inch-long fangs on top and bottom of its mouth were bright white, which contrasted with its black fur.

The beast jumped up onto Barger’s truck as he drove. He pulled a gun on the animal and shot it in one of its eye sockets. The animal fell from the vehicle onto the ground. By the time he could turn his big rig around and get a closer look, the animal had vanished…

Drivin’ & Vibin’

[holdoncallfailed]

so @yeats-infection said she wanted to hear my "take on the classic 'driving in the desert' playlist trope" so here is that :-) you can listen on spotify or youtube

avenging annie — andy pratt

lord of the manor — the everly brothers

middle america — stephen malkmus & the jicks

mark on you — the mountain goats

the ballad of john and yoko — the beatles

mustang sally — wilson pickett

changes — antonio williams & kerry mccoy

cool jerk — the creation

ana — los saicos

there is something in my heart — ghetto brothers

the big country — talking heads

made up in blue — the bats

border girl — young fathers

sore spores — BOBBY

i drove all night — cyndi lauper

gold trans am — kesha

kizza me — big star

lay my love — brian eno & john cale

doin' time — lana del rey

boylife in america — cody chestnutt

drivin' on 9 — the breeders

it takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry — bob dylan

dylan thomas — better oblivion community center

the turnpike down — the lemonheads

many roads to follow (demo) — the nerves

let's spend the night together — claudine longet

hannah hunt — vampire weekend

sleeping is the only love — silver jews

hold within — foley

my darling — wilco

[take-a-minute]

13/07/2004, 00:27

Gus is bored.

He'd wanted to go out with his friends tonight, the ones he only sees when he's in Westville visiting his mum but instead he's babysitting his younger sister, Misty.

He doesn't mind, really — she's only 6 and she isn't overly annoying, but he would've at least preferred if they'd spent his last night in Jersey as a family. Just him, Misty and their mother.

But their mum had agreed to cover someone's shift at the diner, so she couldn't be here. She should've been home by now though.

As he thinks about what could be holding her, there's a knock at the door. That's weird.

Before he goes to open the door, he picks up his mother's gun, just in case it is an axe murderer or something, checking the peep hole.

A cop? Why would there be a cop at the door at this hour? Despite his apprehension, he sets the gun down before opening the door enough to be visible.

"What's yer business, officer?" he asks, taking in the clearly pitying look in the officer's eyes. "What 'appened?"

"Are you Ms. Danthis' son?" the man asks, looking down at Gus, practically scanning over him.

Gus nods, leaning against the doorframe. "Yeah."

"I regret to inform you that your mother has died in a car accident."

As those words leave the man's mouth, Gus entire world feels like it skids to a halt. What?

Apparently his question was uttered aloud because the officer's expression only softens further. "I'm sorry, kid. Docs did everythin' they could to save 'er." It's meant as consolation and Gus knows that he should probably respond in some way, but he can't bring himself to speak.

His mind runs a mile a minute but one thought that overpowers them all is Misty — what'll happen to her?

The officer seems to realise this because the next thing he says answers his question. "Do you know anyone yer sister could stay with?"

"Closest is our grandparents," he mumbles, his voice lacking emotion. He wants to cry, to scream and breakdown and beg for it all to be a bad dream, but he can't. "They're in Oregon."

Clearly this worries the cop. "Nobody in Jersey?"

Gus shakes his head. "Dad died a couple years ago." It's a flat out lie but there is no way in Hell that he's letting that bastard anywhere near Misty.

"Right. I'm sorry but yer sister might hafta go into foster–"

"I'm drivin' out there at 9," Gus blurts out. "I can drop 'er off on the way." Please don't put her into care.

"You're sure about that?"

"Mhm. Start college on the 15th."

"Well alright. And your grandparents won't mind keepin' 'er?"

"Not at all."

The officer sighs and nods. "Alright then. Once again, I'm so sorry for yer loss."

"Thanks, officer." Then Gus closes the door and locks it before sitting down on the floor, back against wall as tears run down his face, sniffling quietly.

He can't believe she's gone.

[freakattack]

kk

Wario: K.K. Groove

Jimmy T: K.K. Disco

Mona: K.K. Ska

9-Volt: DJ K.K.

Dribble: Go K.K. Rider

Spitz: Drivin'

Kat: K.K. Lament

Ana: Spring Blossoms

Orbulon: Hypno K.K.

Crygor: K.K. Flamenco

18-Volt: K.K. Cruisin'

Ashley: K.K. Swing

Red: K.K. Parade

Mike: Rockin' K.K.

Penny: Bubblegum K.K....

Young Cricket: K.K. Jongara

Master Mantis: Steep Hill

5-Volt: K.K. Metal