Terminal zone
this project, my version of Chuck’s promised land isn’t the terminal zone of a California airport, but rather the electrical charge which the alternator is putting out reaching the end of the line… or the electrodes at the end of the sparking plugs. Like the autobiographical ‘poor boy’ of the song, the journey is thwarted at every turn and the hero bemoans his struggle. This is where the similarities end though – I reckon old Chuck’s tale topped up his bank account a bit, whereas my tale promises to empty mine a
