What's There?

I recently moved across country, and as I spent two days driving from LA to San Antonio, one question kept worming its way into my head as we passed through every small town.
   What's there?
   I mean, I can see that there's a Wal-Mart (usually), and gas stations, and schools and a police station, all the kinds of things that you need when you have a certain number of people living within proximity to one another. But I couldn't see what keeps those people there, aside from a particular inertia that we human beings have with regards to our homes.
   Why are certain small towns still places on a map? I know that, in days past, small towns sprang up at trail intersections, or at rail heads, or around natural springs, that kind of thing. If you're traveling cross-country by horse, you're going to need to know where to get water. A lot of water. And if you're herding cattle to load them on box cars, it helps to have services around where the train stops. When we tamed the West we needed a lot of little towns strung out along trails and roads and rail lines.
   But now... not so much.
   I understand that a place like, say, Deming, New Mexico once had a reason to be there, but now it seems to me that the jobs in Deming are geared towards the people of Deming. That is, the Denny's, the supermarket, the insurance broker, etc. etc. Businesses that are there because the people are there, rather than the people being there because the businesses are. The difference is important.
   In the last 50 years we've seen a grand shift from rural to urban living in the US, but it seems to me that the reasons we have a lot of small towns no longer make sense. I can see that the steady urbanization of America will become a grand urbanization, with people moving to manufacturing centers and service centers, which are the big, sprawling cities we now have. Which will only get bigger and sprawlier.
   What does this mean for a place like Deming, New Mexico? I don't know for sure but I can guess. Probably the same thing it means for Luling, Texas, or for Emmett, Idaho: a slow decline as their citizens move away, either to big cities for pointless jobs they'll hate, or back to the farms and ranches where they once labored.
   I think the small town is going away. At least until the cycle turns back around.
   Now... if you could harness the labor force in these small towns, and actually start making things in the US of A again... maybe you'd have something. Food for thought.

Anbody Think Of...

I went out to get my truck inspected today - because they have safety inspections for vehicles in Texas, unlike in California - and while I was waiting I had one of those moments. The one where about five different thoughts converge on you all at the same time, flying so fast and furious that you can't hold onto any single one of them. Usually you remember the least worthy of them, while the best one, the million-dollar idea, scatters off into the aether, where Coleridge's 'Kubla Khan' is.
   Ah, but not this time.
   I have a digital voice recorder now, and I take it with me everywhere. So when I have a thought or a notion or when I see something memorable, I can click the recorder and - presto! - instant note. And don't even have to decipher my increasingly-bad handwriting.*
   The one idea I remembered of four or five rolling through my brain was 'call the dude to fix the lights.' The dude in this case is Jack, the infamous missing-digit handyman.
   Normally that would be the one thing I remembered. But... I had my recorder. So I grabbed it and babbled my other ideas. Pure gold. Something pithy enough to be chiseled into stone, no doubt.
   Not quite.
   Here's the text of the last of my notes, which, I believe, I recorded while watching someone try to cross the very busy street by the inspection station, almost getting creamed in the attempt.
   'You should... uh... check to see if... what the hell?... Jesus, what a moron... uh... raffle...'
   I was wrong before. This isn't pure gold. It's platinum. Want another?
   'Couldn't you put cellophane on regular cars like they do on NASCAR racers? Or would that just make more litter on the highway?'
   Wow. Genius. Here's the best:
   'Could you use the steam from a fryer to spin a little turbine? Just enough to power a restaurant?'
   The inspection station is next to a Jack-in-the-Box.

I think the lesson here is not to voice record while you're distracted. I guess you gotta sift through a little manure to find the diamonds.


* which, distressingly, looks more and more like my father's handwriting as time goes on

A Day In Mulletville

Lee yawned and stretched, a half-nude welcome to the morning. His right hand reached over the couch and accidentally hit the lamp - the one missing the shade - knocking it onto the dog bed. Luckily Booger was begging for Spam in the kitchen and missed getting nailed in the noggin with porcelain.
   "You up, baby?" Lee's old lady called from beside the stove as she lit her first cigarette of the morning from the blue propane flame.
   Lee took a moment to admire her curves inside the tube top, and the way her tattoos made it seem like her arm was constantly moving, even when it wasn't.
   "Gettin' there, sweet thing," Lee mumbled, his voice hoarse from cigarettes and SoCo. The trailer's living room spun in front of him as he labored to his feet, and for the thirtieth time in as many mornings Lee swore he'd need to toss the bottle aside.
   He chuckled to himself. There was no way. He liked the buzz too much to give it up. Things were just going to have to work themselves out.
   Lee kicked his way through the pizza boxes and still-rubber-banded newspapers waiting to have their coupons clipped, and shoved his way past the aluminum ducting and copper wire he'd stolen from those abandoned houses, the ones with actual foundations. He'd need to get that stuff to the scrap yard, sooner rather than later if Lisa had her way.
   Ah... maybe tomorrow.
   Lee flicked the bathroom light switch halfway up, so it just caught but didn't go so far that it sparked, and the bare bulb over the mirror flickered to life. He ran a hand across his chin, where two days' worth of beard took attention away from his puffy, bloodshot eyes. He reached for his toothbrush then remembered that Lisa had commandeered it to clean the little holes ringing her Franklin Mint collectible NASCAR plates. She paid special attention to Jeff Gordon's plate, which caused an argument, but they'd made up with lovin' so loud and enthusiastic it woke the retired couple next door. Lee was proud of that.
   Almost as proud as he was of his Trans-Am. And almost as proud as he was of his haircut. He ran a hand from the front, over the top, then down the back. Short, short, long. Classic mullet. Business in the front, party in the back.
   "Spam's on, baby," Lisa called from the kitchen. Lee heard the 'whoof' of the propane stove going off, but he took another moment with the brush. He hadn't cut the sleeves off his Nazareth t-shirt so his hair could look bad.
   "You gonna look for a job today?" Lisa called out.
   Lee shot himself both barrels of his finger pistols in the mirror, just like Isaac from the Love Boat. Lookin' good. Real good. Maybe get-a-job good.
   "We'll see, sweet thing. We'll see."

Family Planning

So I was in the local CVS this morning, looking for toothpaste and sugar cubes,* when I noticed one of the aisles was labeled 'Family Planning.' I had my suspicions and when I walked over to the 'Family Planning' section I found the late-night staple of the drugstore, the condom section. Lots o' rubbers, many more brands than I suspected existed. Which kind of makes me wonder if condom manufacturers are like GM, lots of brands but one big parent company. So if you buy a Chic, are you really buying a cut-rate Trojan? If you go for the Durex could you get one just as good if you went for the Lifestyles?
   Yes, I made note of the brand names.
   But, more to the point, though I was taken aback by the 'Family Planning' label, I think I was actually pleasantly surprised. That is a euphemism I can get behind. So to speak.
   I mean, if you think about it, after-nine rubber runs are the meat and potatoes of a drug store's income stream. Guy races down to the corner, grabs a few rubbers, a sixer of Bud and some chips for after, maybe chocolate for the lady, slaps a twenty on the counter and he's out the door and back home before his spot under the sheets can cool. It's a vital part of the store's bottom line, is what I'm saying. Which means you want the condom-buyer to be able to find them quickly and easily.
   But you don't want to alienate everyone else who comes in the store during the non-panic hours. Old people buying adult diapers don't want to be reminded of what they aren't so able to do any longer, and young mothers towing kids around don't necessarily want to be reminded of what they should have take a moment to purchase.
   'Family Planning' instead of 'Rubbers.' Or 'Condoms.' Or 'Birth Control.' Or 'Contraceptive Devices' which sounds like some kind of sinister, oily, baby-powder-scented machinery.
   Normally I loathe corporate speak and weasel words, but I think - just this once - I approve. Well done, CVS. Now can you do something about a dress code for your patrons? I don't like boob tattoos on even the best pair, and what I saw today was far from the best pair.


* don't ask, I have my reasons

You Want To Start A Riot?

Look at the Middle East right now, a hotbed of rebellion, instigated, carried out, and perpetuated by young people. Sure, it's easy to be a rebel when you're unemployed and have nothing else to do all day, but America was a country founded on rebellion, and these foreigners are putting us to shame.
   There's a strong streak of wimpiness in American kids these days. And by kids I mean anyone from 16 to 25, young people who are working at Starbucks and playing video games when they should be raising their fists or middle fingers to those people in charge. Their attitude of meek acquiescence is brought on, I believe, by too much sensitivity training early in life. I love you, you love me. Bullshit. And by too much hand-holding by parents and authority figures. Their role models are corporate mannequins like Taylor Swift or the well-behaved and antiseptic Jonas Brothers, instead of Johnny Rotten or Chuck D.*
   Where's the youthful rebellion? Where's the 'we don't need no education' of even twenty years ago? It's gone, replaced with bland conformism. Society needs chaos, it needs upheaval, it needs young people who see things as either black or white, not their parents who see nothing but gray.
   I realize that asking kids these days to go from living in a bunker behind the Wall** to full-on confrontation with the Establishment is too much. You just don't have the tools, you've been brainwashed for too long. So here are a few acts of rebellion, call it civil disobedience, that you can use to jump-start your insurrection.

Hide all the Rascals at Wal-Mart.
   Think of the panic it will cause fat, old, and lazy people.

Flash mobs.
   Authorities hate flash mobs. So don't clear it with the mall manager beforehand or you're just ruining the premise.

TP the statue in the center of town.
   Every town has a statue, usually by the courthouse. Let them know what you think of their 'system' with a few dozen rolls of Charmin.

Sit ins.
   Find a cause, there's gotta be one worth sitting in for. Cops these days are kind of wimpy too, less willing to crack skulls than they were 50 years ago, so you'll probably just get detained and then released. Maybe you'll get tased.

Steal all the flags off the municipal golf course.
   A ninja operation in the dead of night seems the best method.

Sounds like small potatoes, doesn't it? Well, even the biggest avalanche started as one snowflake. See if you can't make a difference. And stick it to the Man.***



* the Sex Pistols and Public Enemy, respectively, look them up

** it's a Pink Floyd reference, look it up

*** yes, technically I am the Man, and I'm cool with it. But I'm disturbed that you asked permission first.

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I'm concerned the garbage man may have it in for me. As far as I know I've done nothing to him to merit his wrath, yet I still feel persecuted.
   Back in the day, when there were three channels on TV plus PBS, there were three men on the garbage truck. One drove, presumably the senior member of the crew, and two clung to the sides of the truck like remoras.* The truck would rumble down the alley, the two guys would leap off and grab what you'd left out, toss it into the gaping maw, leap back on and go to the next pile of bags. They were usually convivial, even joking, and kept one another company as they did what had to be a miserable job.
   Now, though, there's just one garbageman. One loner in his truck, operating a remote-controlled claw. No exercise, no fresh air, no companionship. The lone garbageman is like the lone gunman, except his tower is a five-ton truck and his sniper rifle is the claw.
   We used to leave gifts for the garbagemen at Christmas. Really, just like we did for the paper boy, the postman, and the ritzy homes did for their milk men. Little notes with a couple of bucks inside and a 'thanks for doing a great job!' message. But now, with the garbageman hermetically sealed in his cabin, silently seething, teeth gritted in all-consuming resentment, I don't know how I'd get a gift to him. Maybe carrier pigeon?
   This is why I think he's pissed off - aside from the way he leaves the huge can smack in the middle of my driveway - he knows he's never going to get a Christmas gift.
   I tried to wave to him today, but he refused to acknowledge me. I think one day he's going to drive his truck through my front door, grab me with the big yellow claw, and toss me into the bin.
   Sure, call me crazy, but one day, when there's a garbage-truck sized hole in the front of my house, you'll all feel pretty guilty.


* that kind of simile is probably what pisses off garbagemen...

I Think I Got It Figured Out

I don't think I'm breaking any news when I say that it seems like the world is full of bad guys nowadays. It was once the case, say, after World War II, that we could easily classify the world into good guys and bad guys. We were the good guys, obviously. Even after the collapse of the bad guys - the Soviet Union - we could still find good guys and bad guys.
   But not no more.
   Who is a bigger bad guy, the terrorist who sincerely believes that blowing himself up will make his poverty-stricken world just the slightest bit better, or the corporate fat bastard who knowingly subverts the systems he's supposed to protect just to make another few million dollars he's never going to spend?
   I think you know the answer to that one.
   But I got to thinking... why now? Or, more accurately, why in the last ten years? Why has corporate America gotten so venal, so corrupt, so blatantly self-serving and not at all shy about letting everyone know it? The answer has two words:
   Baby Boomers.
   It's a demographic reality that the incidence of violent crime goes down as a population band gets older, but the incidence of fraud skyrockets. Grandma is not very likely to beat someone up, but the chance that she'll steal a million dollars when she has the opportunity is almost even money. And Baby Boomers are aging.
   But shouldn't the generation of free love and color-blind drug culture be above that? Shouldn't these ex-hippies still tread the path of the greater good?
   Nope.
   Civic responsibility was for their parents, the people who lived the Depression and fought World War II. The Baby Boomers had everything handed to them, literally. They were coddled and pampered and encouraged, and they suffered for it. They sought to tear down the very systems that nurtured them. Look at the education 'reforms' of the late 70's, with Boomers declaring that the approaches used to teach them were defective and lacking and in need of fresh re-thinking. Which didn't work.
   Fast forward about 20 years, and throw in that rat bastard son-of-a-bitch Phil Gramm and his bank deregulation, and you have the exact same thing with finance: foxes in charge of the hen house. Or foxes who designed and built the hen house. Replace 'foxes' with 'disillusioned Boomers who believe the system has failed everyone and is ripe for the plucking' and you'd be right.
   Our grandfathers realized that the only way the banking and finance system was going to survive the Depression was if the people in charge of it acted in a way that restored faith and confidence. Because a banking and finance system is only viable as long as the citizenry believes it's working for the greater good. Replace our grandfathers with their spoiled children, who believe the banking and finance system is only there to be cheated, swindled and pillaged and you have the situation we're in right now. No one trusts the people in charge, for very, very, very good reason.
   The idealists of the '60s turned into the cynics of the '80's turned into the corporate bandits of the 2000's. Not surprisingly, a generation of self-centered egotists turned into AARP-eligible sociopaths who completely abandoned the pretenses of their youth. They were put in charge of a system they didn't create and didn't really believe in, so their only recourse is to abuse their authority. That's not an excuse it's an explanation, and they're still the first against the wall when the revolution comes. And I'm still not joking about that.

Opening Lines

With 20/20 hindsight - and isn't hindsight always 20/20? - Kyle should have known inviting the cobra to the picnic would end badly.

The road wound down from the top of the Rockies like a cracked gray ribbon of ash, leading Willa from her old life as a mountaintop stripper to her new calling as a Bible saleswoman.

Most people didn't believe that Little Dave could hear the Night People's celebration, but then again most people weren't deposed banana republic dictators like Senor Maldonado.

With a snap of his fingers the Russian mob boss tried, convicted and executed Arthur Marx. Arthur had tried in vain to convince the man his last name was just a coincidence.

The lobster bisque was exquisite, the salata alexandra sheer delight, and the lemon sobet a palate-cleansing epiphany. But the real treat came when the chef served Cecile's perfectly-roasted husband as the main course, with a port-pomegranate demiglace and roasted herbed new potatoes.

It wasn't the injustice of his unfortunate demise the very first time he tried autoerotic asphyxiation that made Mike's ghost angry, it was the indignity of his body dangling naked from the fire escape.