It’s been getting kind of heavy around here, what with all the death and the crying and what have you. Fortunately Road House remains Road House at all times and in all ways. Everything that’s happening in Road House is happening simultaneously—the throat rip and the parking scenes and the Sharing Husband and the breakfast scene and the sex scene and the Giving of the Rules and, of course, the monster truck running over a Ford dealership. They’re all as close to you as your copy of the movie, and with the flick of a button you can be anywhere and everywhere within Road House at once. It exists in all states. So here, have a shot I stumbled upon completely at random today of the wheels of a monster truck absolutely demolishing a station wagon. Let it smoosh the sadness and the fear and the anxiety right out of you, let it send them flying out of your body in thousands of jagged shards. Be the truck. Be the wagon. Be Wagon Days now.

I can’t stop thinking about Pete Strodenmire’s tie. It’s Wagon Days down at the dealership, see, and Peter Strodenmire woke up that morning in good spirits. Sure, there was that business with Red to worry about, and Brad Wesley would almost certainly stop by to rub his nose in it, but Strodenmire didn’t mind. It was a beautiful morning, a fine morning, the kind of morning that makes the day seem endless with sunshine and possibilities. And here it’s Wagon Days—the most wonderful time of the year, he’d joke with Pam in the office. The good people of Jasper would flock to Strodenmire Ford for good deals, good friends, and all the free wieners they can eat. It’s enough to put a song in your heart, and for Pete Strodenmire that song was by-god the Star-Spangled Banner. Days like this made him proud to be an American, Brad Wesley be damned. And who knows—by the time this Wagon Day was over Strodenmire might be that much closer to his own American Dream, that little slice of paradise in Key Biscayne. He could picture the little driftwood sign with the house’s name in handpainted letters: BEACHY KEEN.

Yes, it was going to be a fine day. A fine, fine day.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Brad?” Dr. Elizabeth Clay asks. “Have you lost your mind?” Elizabeth is the second person in the film, out of a total of two, to refer to Brad Wesley by his first name; the other was her uncle Red Webster. They were family once, after all. In Red’s case, he likely called Wesley “Brad” in hopes that maintaining a cordial, familial front would spare him his wrath and conceal his true feelings about their business relationship. Much the same could be said for Elizabeth’s use of his first name here—she is, after all, attempting to dissuade him from his current destructive course of action. But there’s a great bit of business that occurs when she approaches to confront him: She takes off her sunglasses, casually but purposefully, the way you do when your sunny day has been unexpectedly interrupted by something serious and you want to see it all clearly as you hash it out. It’s the gesture of one former lover to the next, a removal of a block to renewed intimacy, of whatever kind.

For his part, Brad doesn’t attempt to inveigle his way back into Elizabeth’s heart, or even her bed. His concern for her is almost, though surely Red would dispute the use of the term, avuncular. He doesn’t like seeing her wind up with “a drifter” like Dalton. “It’s a shame,” he says. No “I want you back,” no “If I can’t have you nobody will,” just…it’s a shame. More in sorrow than in anger. That’s Brad for you: perpetually disappointed that no one but his boys will listen to reason. Disappointed, but not dissuaded: “I’m not gonna lose a second’s sleep about it,” he says to Elizabeth after informing her of his plan to murder Dalton should he continue to cause him trouble. What the hell is wrong with Brad? Other people.

“You lost your faith, Strodenmire, that’s what it is,” Brad Wesley tells the walrus-mustachioed man who just wanted Jasper to enjoy Wagon Days, pinching his cheek like a child’s in the process. “It’s made you an abuser!” he concludes, wagging a finger in the man’s face. Thus is the gaslighting of Strodenmire by a man who infantilizes him, touches him without permission, browbeats him in front of his friends, and then destroys his property in an act of classic victim-blaming. Strodenmire’s eyes are remarkable in this scene, huge limpid saucers of anger and terror and, yes, confusion. Have I lost faith? Am I an abuser? In the time it takes Strodenmire to process the words of the man who is victimizing him, Gary Ketcham runs over his car dealership with a monster truck. “I never thought you’d turn on me too,” Wesley says when it’s all over. The message is clear: Look what you made me do.

You’ve heard me complain about Ketcham, Brad Wesley’s most anonymous goon. How he’s handsome in a generic, Ken-doll way. How he’s a shirt-tucked-into-jeans kind of guy. How he doesn’t get a memorable introduction, just kind of sidling along in the background during the Bleeder scene. How no one ever bothers saying his credited name “Ketcham” out loud. How he pales in comparsion to Morgan, O’Connor, Jimmy, Pat McGurn, even Tinker, but how he’s the final guardian of Brad Wesley and the killer of Wade Garrett. How despite wielding the boot-knife and driving the monster truck you could walk right past him without even realizing who he was. How he’s aggressively, almost confrontationally non-descript.

Imagine how I feel now that I realize his name is “Gary.”

“Well, what are you waitin’ for, Gary? Drive through there!” That’s what Brad Wesley yells just before this tool in his giant red baseball cap runs over Strodenmire Ford with his monster truck. He says it with his back turned and with no eyeline-match cut, which is why I’ve watched this movie several dozen times and never noticed it before, but yeah, that’s Ketcham’s first name, Gary. Gary Ketcham. Gary, that most vanilla of names. If beige were a name rather than a color, it would be Gary. Gary is the “pic of myself wearing Oakleys in the driver’s seat of my car as a twitter avatar” of names. Gary. Wade Garrett gets killed by a guy named Gary. You remember Gary, don’t you? Wait, who are we talking about again?

“Dalton, you gotta check this out,” Jack says. “Looks like Wesley wants to put a little something down on a new car.” This is his tipoff to his boss that Brad Wesley plans to take a monster truck and destroy a car dealership with it. Why he chose to deliver this information in a wisecrack is the viewer’s to decide. Spider-Man, I’m thinking—Jack reads Spider-Man comics, hence the resort to jokes during tense moments. Do I get a No-Prize?

But Jack and his banter and his weirdly small boots with his stonewashed denim tucked into them is beside the point. Mostly I want to call attention to the assemblage of humanity present for the impromptu monster truck rally. Jack is there, and so are his Double Deuce coworkers Carrie Ann and Frank Tilghman. Red Webster is there too—guess he didn’t skip town after all—along with Emmett, who has finally taken his place in the Council of Elders I suppose. Brad Wesley has brought along virtually his entire goon crew, though that’s to be expected when you’re planning to destroy a place of business in broad daylight.

And here in their car are Dr. Elizabeth Clay, Dalton, and Cody from the Jeff Healey Band. What was their plan for the afternoon? What did that conversation sound like? “Hey Cody, it’s Dalton. Look, me and the Doc were gonna swing by Wagon Days at Strodenmire Ford after lunch sometime. Wanna come with?” “Sure thing, man, just gotta drain the main vein first.” “Okay, well, as I said we won’t be heading over till like one or two, so you should have plenty of—hello? Hello?”

Road House is a film in which a man runs over a car dealership with a monster truck.

Not a car. A car dealership.

He runs it over.

With a monster truck.

They mount a camera between the tires and everything. To capture every nuance. Of running over a car dealership. With a monster truck.

During Wagon Days, no less.

Obviously I’ve known that this happened ever since I first saw the film. I appreciated how over the top it is, even for Brad Wesley and his goons, and even for Road House. The presence of the monster truck at all is…well, it leaps right out at you the first time you see Ketchum drive up to Wesley’s mansion in it, like his brother had borrowed his Mercury Cougar for a trip to St. Louis so he drove his other car to his boss’s house, and his other car just so happened to be a monster truck. But it wasn’t until the other day, when I wrote the phrase “running over a car dealership with a monster truck,” that…no, actually, it was some hours later, when I reiterated the point on twitter. That’s what brought it all home for me. Road House is a film in which a man runs over a car dealership with a monster truck.

It sounds like any other wanton act of vehicular destruction, at first. “Oh yeah, he ran over a c—wait, what?” It takes a second to sink in. The closest point of comparison I can come up with is in the post-show interviews at the end of Waiting for Guffman, when Parker Posey’s character talks about her dad getting out of jail because he didn’t do anything that bad, “he just ruined some property.” Stole, destroyed, sure, whatever, but then you register the word choice. Ruined? Now I’m intrigued. Now I want to know, but also I don’t want to know. You know? Ruining property, like running over a car dealership, is understating an overstatement.

The other film I think of when I think of this moment is Citizen Toxie: The Toxic Avenger IV, because that’s the movie that was in pre-production when I interned at Troma Studios in the summer of 1999. I had very little to do with the finished product; my main contributions were scouting for a production office (unsuccessfully) and taking an uncredited rewrite pass at the screenplay (also unsuccessfully, though interns rewriting screenplays says a lot about Troma).

What I did do was read All I Need to Know About Filmmaking I Learned from The Toxic Avenger, the memoir cum how-to manual by Troma co-founder and creative force Lloyd Kaufman and a then-unknown James Gunn. The idea that’s stuck with me the longest since I read the book, aside from Karo Syrup making the best fake blood, is that if you have any means at your disposal by which to raise the apparent production value of your film, you avail yourself of those means. An eccentric uncle with a crazy-looking house? A rich friend with an insanely nice car? A major urban metropolis with a tourist mecca where there are simply too many people for the cops to catch you should you choose to film someone running naked through Times Square without a permit? (The filming, not the nakedness.) It doesn’t matter whether or not these things are germane to your movie. They look awesome and/or expensive. Make them germane.

I think about this every time I see a movie about barfights at one in the morning set a scene in a Ford dealership in broad daylight where a deranged businessman orders his minion to drive a monster truck through a glass enclosed showroom and over every single new car inside of it. I think about it every time I see the monster truck in this movie at all. Road House had access to a car dealership and Road House had access to a monster truck, ergo Road House has a scene in which a man runs over a car dealership with a monster truck. Those who can, do.