Friday, November 5, 2010
Where in Hell Can You Go
Dear Dallas, Texas:
I don't think I like you much. Not the way your crop of shiny new penny skyscrapers insinuate themselves into the sky like show-off children at a reality television talent contest. Not your endless shuttle of hermetically sealed worker ants over and along your snarl-knit flyover bridges and tangled crawl of five lane concrete conveyor belts. You are not San Francisco or Chicago. You are not London New York Paris Munich. You are pop music beating a tin pan alley beat. You are proof that there is indeed a health care crisis in these here united states, but it has nothing to do with the fact that 30 percent of us can't afford insurance, but, rather, with the fact that 70 percent of us are never out of our cars/offices/Starbucks/Chili's and Chick-fil-A's long enough to move our bodies into any semblance of good health. Your people, Dallas, they have no guidance or grace.
Dear All Situational Awareness Deprived Drivers Along I-20,
The left hand lane is not a cruising lane. It is not your living room, locker room, or confessional. It is not where you take the shiny new SUV your husband just bought you out for a Sunday drive while sucking on a non fat decaf soy macchiato and yammering into a cell phone to your BFF. The left hand lane is a passing lane, and when you see me coming up behind you in your rear view mirror, pull over and get the hell out of my way. It's late, I'm tired, and all I've had to eat today is a congealing compound of grease, sugar, and sodium that is not only infusing its way into my arteries, but also into my brain. So at some point, I'm not going to give a shit if I take the front end of this rental car and shove it up the backside of your ridiculously lemon-yellow colored Humvee outfitted with a winch and fog lights you are going to use . . . when? I am older, smarter, better dressed, and I have more insurance. Just be glad that because I chose to carry-on my luggage, I am also not armed.
Dear Shreveport, Louisiana,
You seem like you'd be a nice city to visit. If it weren't for those hideous casinos. What happens in Vegas really needs to stay in Vegas.
Dear Ruston, Louisiana,
I love the way you've charmed yourself up with historic homes and bustling boutiques and hopefully overpriced bistros attempting sushi and swank. Very pretty. Too bad it rained the entire time I was there and there was no way I could justify contributing to the local economy by buying another A-line tunic dress I just don't need, much less charge a meal at the bistro to my client, so instead I ended up with a couple limp attempts at Cajun/creole that put my tummy into yet another grumbled state. What, does everyone in the state want to be New Orleans? Although, it was a kick to see Grambling's head football coach piling his plate with lo mein at the local Chinese joint. Had I actually known who he was at the time he broad-smiled his way around me to the pot stickers, I would have asked for his autograph for S.B.
Shhhhhhhh. And I didn't even bring him a tee shirt this time, dang it.