© 2003 Brian Hodges - Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

often dream of becoming a famous writer. Be it of books, screenplays or even funny little columns. How wonderful it would be to be a household name, influencing the thoughts and opinions of millions. But then again, with that kind of fame comes great responsibility which I don’t think I’m quite ready for. Because suddenly I’d have to be worried about the kinds of ideas I was putting into the heads of children and their sue-happy parents. Untold creative geniuses from Socrates to that guy from Jackass have all had to deal with this horrible stigma.

All it takes is one stupid kid with low self-esteem to go jumping off the U.N. building because Brian Hodges said it was a good idea, and suddenly I’m famous for reasons I don’t want to be. It’s a good thing I’m not famous yet. Otherwise, there’d be no way I could get away with telling this story.

(And for the three of you reading this column who are not family members, I encourage you to please, drink heavily before attempting what I’m about to describe so that my defense is that much tighter when I meet your grieving parents before the judge.)

Driving in cities is one of my least favorite things in this world. Give me an open highway with a 65 speed limit and I’m in Dukes of Hazard Heaven. But imprison me between a gazillion other cars on narrow streets with stoplights and crosswalks and I seize up, desiring nothing more than to just speed through it all.

A couple weeks ago, I finally stopped suppressing that desire. I was driving through Center City, Philadelphia around six o’clock on a Wednesday night. Rush hour was over, but traffic was still moving like autistic children – slow and spastic. I’d been having a bad day and I wanted nothing more than to just finish what I was doing and get home. I was punching the steering wheel, cursing like a sailor and empathizing with shotgun toting road-ragers.

And then Elvis Presley came to my rescue.

My Geo Metro has no power steering, brakes, locks or windows. When I go above eighty, the car rattles my side mirrors out of position. Yet in the middle of all this stripped down, no-frills economy, is my oasis: the Jensen 350 Turbo Mp3 player. On this night, in "the birthplace of freedom", I popped in my "Catharsis" mix and punched in the number for "A Little Less Conversation."

With the opening guitar riffs, I said, "F--- it," and took off. I sped. I wove. I missed cars and pedestrians by mere feet. My goal was to not let any light turn red on me. And if it did, I speed on through anyway. "A little less conversation, a little more action please…"

I was one with my Geo, casting barely a glance at my blind spot before swinging easily into the parking lane to pass a line of slow-moving (read: speed-limit-obeying) cars, only to swing back into the left lane to avoid hitting a city bus dispatching passengers. All the while, I was strumming air guitar with my right hand, beating steering wheel drums with my left and singing along with Mister Presley the whole way, "A little less time, a little more walk, a little less rhyme a little more talk. You know you might open up your mind and baby satisfy me." Okay, so I don’t know the words. It didn’t matter. Cops couldn’t catch me. Collisions couldn’t touch me. I had The King as my backup.

Oh the adrenaline, the exhilaration of skyscrapers whipping past me at sixty miles per hour. I felt like George Clooney racing in the Batmobile to the Bellagio Hotel just in time to blow the safe, steal the money and take Jennifer Lopez back to his place. I made it through the city in record time.

If you’re ever in Philadelphia, I highly recommend giving it a try. It really is the ideal city for such a thing. New York is too crowded. L.A., too spread out. And Washington is just laid out weird. Plus, you’ve seen how slow Pennsylvania drivers get on the Parkway. Now, imagine them on a city street. You could blow past them like they’re standing still. Who are we kidding, they probably are standing still because the light only turned green ten seconds ago. Philly has the perfect ratio of tall buildings and slow drivers to give you all the exhilaration of breaking the law without endangering your life (or others’) more than once or twice.

But, no matter what city you choose to violate, these two rules are a must.

1). You must harness the power of Elvis Aaron Presley. And…

2). When you get arrested, you must never tell anyone that I told you to do it.