I like Concrete

Walking around in the blazing hot sun this afternoon, my lungs baking in my ribcage from the obnoxious aroma of fresh tarmac mixed with the cloying perfume of passing diesel rigs, I felt the need to come home, peel off my sopping camouflage tee-shirt, and give vent to a few random thoughts.

I like concrete. I like modern, pre-fab buildings, parking garages, multi-story housing units, and the slightly-intoxicating whiff from auto garages left open in the baking heat of an August scorcher.

I like crumbling asphalt, decaying little thrift stores, loud, abrasive rumbles from passing autos. Recently, I had the great fortune to walk directly beside a truck full of livestock--pigs--all squealing miserably on their way out to the slaughterhouse. They were jammed inside thick as thieves, and the smell was something I can only describe as the wonderful aroma of hogshit and gasoline; fetid purity mixed with oil and heavy machine scent. It was truly an awe-inspiring moment.

Rumble and squeal, skitter and grind; it was like music to my ears.

I like the smell of smoke, the aroma of grease from lousy restaurants, the air-conditioned decay of supermarket produce. I dig the wind as it rifles it's way through the little stands of trees on the walkway out to the park. I don't want much nature, just enough to enjoy happily as it is surrounded by buildings and electricity, telephone wires and nice, new sidewalks.

I like suburban houses lined up neatly in an orderly row, covering landscapes curiously barren of tress, with chain link fences cuffing in the riotous indiscipline of backyards that must be mowed by chugging, sputtering lawn jockeys.

I like listening to "Embers" by Non while I sit at my computer and surf the internet for information about mass-murderers, spree killers, psychopathic maniacs, and royalty-paying traditional publishers that might, actually, accept my next piece.

I like convenience stores run by Indian women that eye me suspiciously as I pop over to the freezer for a Jones Green Apple Soda. I like having the exact same politics as my next door neighbor, and I like being one of "the regular folks".

I like barbecues, cheap jewelry, studded wrist bands, big boots, desperate women, black coffee, cheap beer, and cruddy diners. I like knee-length cutoffs, camouflage, black shirts, shaving my head, and getting tattooed again.

I like teaching elementary and middle grades. I like the way kids think, and I wish that they stayed that way for the rest of their lives.

I like books on the occult, bad movies (really bad), talk radio, junk food, and those little yellow-ribbon decals I got stuck on my refrigerator.

I like the big whooshing sounds made by the air-conditioning system at the drive-thru bank down the street. Ditto the hospital. It's a kind of natural music: a heavy, ominous drone that perfectly compliments the other environmental sounds that continually assault our psychic space. I like construction sites, helicopters overhead, staring at passing airplanes, and listening to trains clatter and rumble into the distance. I like all of these things.

I like having money in my pocket, when I can.

I think if you don't have anything nice to say about this country, you should hop the first jet out to Tehran, change your name to Dariush, and learn to appreciate the finer points of Shariah Law.

I like voting straight Republican. I like speaking with a hillbilly accent, shooting guns, and dabbling in abstract surrealist art and music. I like free Mp3s.

I think Pastor Johnny Lee Clary is one of the greatest Americans alive today. I think Ann Coulter should be required reading at all colleges and prep schools. Ditto Jim Goad.

I like blogging. It fulfills the same pathological need I felt back in the old days, when I use to spend countless hours at print shops photocopying endless shitty home-made magazines. Now, I can indulge in exactly the same sort of drivel without having to spend any pocket change on xeroxes.

Whew, this IS the most wonderful and terrible of times to be alive.

Yessiree bob.

NOTE: The preceding, obviously, had NOTHING to do with Israel, the war in the Middle East, or stupid Moonbats of any persuasion. Tough. Sometimes even I need to take a break.

If you want the current news, go scoop out someone else's blog. This here is MY turf.

Ketcha later.