When did this nation start celebrating redneck culture?
A few weeks ago I saw a KFC advertisement touting the arrival of the Dale Earnhardt collectable fried chicken bucket. I don't know about you, but the last thing I want as a keepsake for my namesake is a greasy cyllindrical object that at one time housed deep-fried food. I don't give a squirrel's behind that it has a picture of a man who drives his car "real-fast" in circles all day long.
As of late, white trash culture is as prevalent as chiggers in dixie grass. What astounds me is the differentiation between white trash and White Trash. As if the capitals "W" and "T" elevate these bogus-bumpkins to Lord and Lady of the trailer park.
In all honesty, quintessential rednecks don't offend my not-so-delicate sensibilities. There have always been those folks who don white, stringy wife-beaters (purchased at Wally-World in lieu of a toothbrush) to hug their pale, sickly flesh. Let them carry their Marlboro reds, Natty-Light beer and Nascar lighter wherever they may roam.
It's these brash young thangs who are buying $5 chai at Starbucks in their oh-so-sexy rolled "cowboy" hats that make me question the future of the United States. Think about it - these people are idolizing the gap-toothed, hillbilly population who slam Pat Robertson bumper stickers on the back of their prehistoric Ford.
Intellectualizing this disturbing trend has made me irritated with the general American public. My advice is to tuck that CK thong back into those JLo jeans, Sweetcheeks. I have no desire to watch your boobs pop from the top of that retro-rhinestone jean jacket.
I also think I need to eat me a nice little snack. Now, where is that recipe for cooter pie?
Friday, July 30, 2004
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
The Veil Between Worlds
Human beings are self-absorbed. It seems as if our supreme ego-centricity commands us to believe that we are the only beings in this universe. We know the cycle of birth, death and rebirth by watching our seasons. We do not think about the spaces between life and death and death and rebirth.
Yesterday, I contemplated the psuedo-death of the front lawn. About half of the grass is completely dry and yellow; half of it is green and lush. In between the two patches lies a strip that is half alive.
This predicament isn't a quandary. The explanation of why this is so is very cut and dry, much like east section of the grass. Half of the sprinkler system works, the other half doesn't. The sad little blades of grass had every right to decide to forfeit their will to live.
Obviously, people aren't as easy to explain. My great-grandmother, queen of bathtub gin during prohibition and a righteously hysterical lady, is nearly 101 years old. Somehow, she maintains the will to hang on to her life. She rises and shines and remembers old stories better than she remembers yesterday. She hugs and laughs and occasionally makes off-color jokes. She thinks it's great that I found "such a nice boy to take care of me."
Yesterday she awoke at 3AM convinced that the ceiling was caving. She had conversations with her dead brother Roy as he sat on the new couch. She held court as imaginary people came in and out of the house to visit. One guest apparently proclaimed "see you later, Sweetness" every time my mother left the living room for a moment. Roy had to leave halfway through the day, but he said he'd see my great-gram very soon.
In the afternoon, my great-grandmother told my mom to get a bed ready for my brother as he was coming for a visit. Much to everyone's surprise, my brother arrived shortly thereafter.
Everything that comes from the Earth and nature must return. We are born to start dying. Yet, we rise and shine in the morning, buy our $4.00 latte and grumble about traffic on the way to work. Very rarely, we notice the spaces between the events in our lives. We don't take the time.
It is possible that my wonderful great-gram is hallucinating as she begins the process of dying. But, I also think she is getting the time to notice the space between her life and death. I only hope her transition is easy and happy.
Yesterday, I contemplated the psuedo-death of the front lawn. About half of the grass is completely dry and yellow; half of it is green and lush. In between the two patches lies a strip that is half alive.
This predicament isn't a quandary. The explanation of why this is so is very cut and dry, much like east section of the grass. Half of the sprinkler system works, the other half doesn't. The sad little blades of grass had every right to decide to forfeit their will to live.
Obviously, people aren't as easy to explain. My great-grandmother, queen of bathtub gin during prohibition and a righteously hysterical lady, is nearly 101 years old. Somehow, she maintains the will to hang on to her life. She rises and shines and remembers old stories better than she remembers yesterday. She hugs and laughs and occasionally makes off-color jokes. She thinks it's great that I found "such a nice boy to take care of me."
Yesterday she awoke at 3AM convinced that the ceiling was caving. She had conversations with her dead brother Roy as he sat on the new couch. She held court as imaginary people came in and out of the house to visit. One guest apparently proclaimed "see you later, Sweetness" every time my mother left the living room for a moment. Roy had to leave halfway through the day, but he said he'd see my great-gram very soon.
In the afternoon, my great-grandmother told my mom to get a bed ready for my brother as he was coming for a visit. Much to everyone's surprise, my brother arrived shortly thereafter.
Everything that comes from the Earth and nature must return. We are born to start dying. Yet, we rise and shine in the morning, buy our $4.00 latte and grumble about traffic on the way to work. Very rarely, we notice the spaces between the events in our lives. We don't take the time.
It is possible that my wonderful great-gram is hallucinating as she begins the process of dying. But, I also think she is getting the time to notice the space between her life and death. I only hope her transition is easy and happy.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Shiny Happy People Holding Hands
My left hand is shiny and he's happy that he doesn't have to worry about my father taking him for a "drive" in the "woods" a la Tony Soprano.
I've gotten the ring and some new insight. I've come to the conclusion that it really isn't all about the bling.
It is truly about something far more amazing than just a perfect, princess cut stone cresting ten smaller princess cut stones set in a white gold band. It is far more intense than the shimmering, sparkling beacon of our hope faith and love. It is nearly indescribable, as it is an experience like none other I've ever had in my life.
And, I now know, that it is all about the registering for wedding gifts.
I've gotten the ring and some new insight. I've come to the conclusion that it really isn't all about the bling.
It is truly about something far more amazing than just a perfect, princess cut stone cresting ten smaller princess cut stones set in a white gold band. It is far more intense than the shimmering, sparkling beacon of our hope faith and love. It is nearly indescribable, as it is an experience like none other I've ever had in my life.
And, I now know, that it is all about the registering for wedding gifts.
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