Walking that dog.

Aug 25, 2007 19:24

You start to realize, on I-94, that it's not so bad, nothing's so bad. There are bearded pedophiles living in slovenly, sprawling Midwestern hell doing nothing, nothing, smoking cigarettes and swigging whiskey and scratching their balls. Filthy and unfit to parent anyone or anything, and yet they reproduce.

You start to realize, in the midst of some hick-ass bar on Water Street, Eau Claire Wisconsin, that in small towns there is no such thing as political correctness, or even a remote third cousin, and the talk about women is misogynistic, the talk about women is crass and dangerous.

(At least Bukowski had a kind of talent to brighten his boozy sexism.)

You start to realize, on the outskirts of Eau Claire, that suburban sprawl is deadly, that poor urban planning means more cars on the highways and in line at the filling stations, that all the arable land is being bought out and converted into housing tracts, rows and rows of identical townhomes with a view of McDonald's.

You make it back to Minneapolis and vow to never again enter a small town in the Midwest if it can be avoided, and to live only in the urbanest of urban areas or the remotest of remote areas.
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