Ever been to Texas? It’s like this whole other country. The speak the same language, albeit with a clearly identifiable twang, they look like us, they dress like us, yet they’re different some how.
My path to Texas last week was anything but direct. I thought for sure there would be blog worthy material in all the connections, crowded airplanes, lonely rental car counters, and late night hotel check-ins. But alas, as they say in the lit programs at Harvard and Yale, I gots nothing.
Routine. Alarmingly routine. When things go the way they should, I start waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to blow up, for some crisis to develop. When it doesn’t materialize, I’m at a loss for what to do.
Plainly stated, I require lunacy. I crave the bizarre, the ridiculous, the absurd. Sans the silliness, I’m left with nothing to do but laugh at myself, which, an immeasureable supply of prime material notwithstanding, is a spectator sport that has long since lost it’s appeal. I much prefer to drink from the never ending fount that are the foibles and miss-deeds of those around me. Good times indeed.
Fear not. For as the world turns, it will most assuredly spin up someone willing to stick they’re tongue to the frozen flag pole of life. When they do, I shall be there to document it, in all its glory, giving thanks for the muse, the inspiration, and most importantly, that it wasn’t me that got caught…
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