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-77Vincent Van Gogh Rode with LBJ One Day in that Texan’s convertible as it tore its high compressioned and shock-ruined way across the wild Texas hill country. There would have been nothing in France that Vincent could have compared it with, of course. Absolutely nothing like the wild, bouncing, turf-tearing circular turns that sent cactus exploding into juicy spiked green swirls, nothing like those moments of charging into wildflowers like a mad bull, his shoulders getting bathed with showers of fiery Indian blanket and clouds of bluebonnets that were a darker azure than any night he had ever imagined. He tried screaming once But the roar of the V-8 drowned him out. It’s a dream I will wake up from, Vincent thought, as he clung with white knuckles to the dashboard, his desperate eyes searching for any sign of culture but instead only seeing rattlesnakes striking at the tires. It is a nightmare where I am kidnapped by a demonic, big-nosed madman. I am actually sleeping in my loft beside the Seine, contemplating in my slumber how I shall angrily paint angst— then Whoosh! a sudden right turn to avoid a burr oak and Vincent found himself chewing some pretty close to reality upholstery. Oh, little did poor Vincent know that even then that larger-than-life-President was looking over at his passenger and wondering if he could shake some sanity and courage into him if he reached over and grabbed him by his one remaining ear. ...

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