We drove across America by night wanting to be characters in a novel by Jack Kerouac. We smoked cigarettes, drank booze and cough syrup while listening to a mix of jazz on the car stereo and the wind howling through the windows. Sadly, our dreams of being Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise would dissolve every time we pulled into a drive-thru at an all night McDonalds. Sometimes I would try to hold onto some small sense of my beat character. I would blow a smoke ring at the clown and tell the guy listening inside, "What difference does it make after all?--anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what’s heaven? what’s earth? All in the mind.... so hey, supersize me man s u p e r s i z e me."