Not only a barraging Hüsker Dü record but the passion-obsession of real-life Burt Munro, the subject of the movie The World’s Fastest Indian, which I went to see with my ladies, Mom and Marion.

Let’s get a couple incidentals out of the way:

• Incidentally, much like the way I used to laugh to myself about a crackhead walking the halls and conference rooms of a huge European bank on Wall Street, I still get kind of a kick and kind of a wonderment comparing my new company to my old company. As PJ Harvey put it, “the whores hustle[d] and the hustlers whore[d].” Or, roaches would crawl the walls while I shot shit and snuffled up another rayo of coke with illegal Mexican immigrants. Now I’m down to—or up to—two Mormon women on Social Security. One of them wears a wig, though, so that’s sort of exciting.
• Incidentally, Anthony Hopkins’ performance was the best I’ve seen, and I liked him in Silence of the Lambs.

Now, let’s get a little disclaimer out of the way:

• Yes, the movie is a formulaic feel-gooder.

Okay, now I can get to my point. That is, an old man spent 25 years dreaming and working on that dream, nobody but he believed he could do it, he plowed through all obstacles against all odds, and he did it.

He did it.

Hollywood’s not good for all that much but when it gives me a little boost, a little re-energizing, perhaps even a little inspiration to accomplish the things I want to accomplish&ndasha drug-free life, a book, a fence for my mom—then I appreciate it. That’s the second time this week. A rarity, indeed.