Stuck in Truck Country (or 10 Secrets to a Great Looking Prostate)
A sleepless night on Cul-de-Sac Independence; wandering aimlessly through the house for a spot to sink into...crash landing instead on the guest room futon.
A truck rumbles into action. A big one. Coming to life and growling for prey at 12:30 in the morning. Idles like a nightmare, like a relentlessly spinning steel trap gnashing its teeth and nipping at your ankles for dream-time eternity.
Shit.
The metal monster, a red-and-black Dodge pickup with giant chrome pipes and over-sized American flags donning each corner of its bed, sits and rumbles and idles idles idles. The cheap single-pane window in the bedroom rattles with every chug-a-chug. The floor trembles beneath.
I just wanted to sleep.
This is not uncommon or unexpected in any way. This scene takes place every night, around the same time, and with no real rhyme or reason, other than to remind everyone that it won't be stopped anytime soon.
The cul-de-sac can often be mistaken for a a makeshift Diesel exhibition, complete with trucker caps, exhaust billow demonstrations and games of patriotic one-ups-man-ship...wallet-chains and chrome polish for the kids!
Come One, Come All! Saturday Saturday Saturday!
Yep, this is Truck Country. Smack-dab plum-in-the-middle-of-Murica Truck Country, where resentment's just a way of life and everyone's ready to pop on a moment's notice.
The tension is palpable.
Everyday, as I wind my way through the meandering stream of suburbia, I pass by what must be 15 or 20 of these behemoths, all decorated in sharp, contrasting paints and decked out with over-sized chrome implements, back windows clad with bone-filled grenade stickers; all ready to pounce on the next motorist who happens to pass by and blink at exactly the wrong time.
Behind the wheels of these monsters sits flesh-covered lumps of bottled-up rage; bitter, solidified pillars of piss borne from years of repressed emotion and continual disappointment (I'm spit-balling). Forever seeking an outlet (or perhaps an excuse), these pent-up pioneers of passionless ire (what?) keep ever-paranoid eyeballs ever-employed, constantly swiveling and searching for 'violators'; those unfortunate souls who appear threatening, or who are, at the very least, simply crying out for a good 'throttling' from those with nothing but time on their hands and insecurity in their hearts...
Rage is thick in the burbs. So thick, in fact, that it's often impossible to navigate around it in any meaningful way. Not uncommon is the moment when avoidance is impossible, when you must walk into the grocery store and through the fog, feel it penetrating and passing through your being, and come out trying not to feel a little heavier, sadder and coarser than you were before.
I have always been somewhat of an angry lad, as long-time friends and family can perhaps attest. Yet, for the most part, I've been able to brush much of my anger off into the dirt, or to channel it into something useful.
Eventually, I saw an opening, and seized a little light. Existence became somewhat bearable again.
For many here in the burbs, however, it seems that anger was never channeled, never mitigated, never relegated to a more functional or useful role as 'part 'of the larger personality. Rather, it spread from the head and heart on down, eventually occupying the whole. All that rage is now personified, embodied as displaced, over-worn souls always hunting for a place to grit their teeth and explode.
Casualties of Rage, holed up in houses and home depots and dealerships, constructing chromed-up Chrysler-brand tanks and preparing for wars being waged between their ears. Mercenaries without suitors, those seeking vengeance and death in all the wrong things; happily hating all the wrong people...
Saddle up. This is Truck Country.
re ipsa loquitor
BP
Next up--A Post That Makes Sense!
A truck rumbles into action. A big one. Coming to life and growling for prey at 12:30 in the morning. Idles like a nightmare, like a relentlessly spinning steel trap gnashing its teeth and nipping at your ankles for dream-time eternity.
Shit.
The metal monster, a red-and-black Dodge pickup with giant chrome pipes and over-sized American flags donning each corner of its bed, sits and rumbles and idles idles idles. The cheap single-pane window in the bedroom rattles with every chug-a-chug. The floor trembles beneath.
I just wanted to sleep.
This is not uncommon or unexpected in any way. This scene takes place every night, around the same time, and with no real rhyme or reason, other than to remind everyone that it won't be stopped anytime soon.
The cul-de-sac can often be mistaken for a a makeshift Diesel exhibition, complete with trucker caps, exhaust billow demonstrations and games of patriotic one-ups-man-ship...wallet-chains and chrome polish for the kids!
Come One, Come All! Saturday Saturday Saturday!
Yep, this is Truck Country. Smack-dab plum-in-the-middle-of-Murica Truck Country, where resentment's just a way of life and everyone's ready to pop on a moment's notice.
The tension is palpable.
Everyday, as I wind my way through the meandering stream of suburbia, I pass by what must be 15 or 20 of these behemoths, all decorated in sharp, contrasting paints and decked out with over-sized chrome implements, back windows clad with bone-filled grenade stickers; all ready to pounce on the next motorist who happens to pass by and blink at exactly the wrong time.
Behind the wheels of these monsters sits flesh-covered lumps of bottled-up rage; bitter, solidified pillars of piss borne from years of repressed emotion and continual disappointment (I'm spit-balling). Forever seeking an outlet (or perhaps an excuse), these pent-up pioneers of passionless ire (what?) keep ever-paranoid eyeballs ever-employed, constantly swiveling and searching for 'violators'; those unfortunate souls who appear threatening, or who are, at the very least, simply crying out for a good 'throttling' from those with nothing but time on their hands and insecurity in their hearts...
Rage is thick in the burbs. So thick, in fact, that it's often impossible to navigate around it in any meaningful way. Not uncommon is the moment when avoidance is impossible, when you must walk into the grocery store and through the fog, feel it penetrating and passing through your being, and come out trying not to feel a little heavier, sadder and coarser than you were before.
I have always been somewhat of an angry lad, as long-time friends and family can perhaps attest. Yet, for the most part, I've been able to brush much of my anger off into the dirt, or to channel it into something useful.
Eventually, I saw an opening, and seized a little light. Existence became somewhat bearable again.
For many here in the burbs, however, it seems that anger was never channeled, never mitigated, never relegated to a more functional or useful role as 'part 'of the larger personality. Rather, it spread from the head and heart on down, eventually occupying the whole. All that rage is now personified, embodied as displaced, over-worn souls always hunting for a place to grit their teeth and explode.
Casualties of Rage, holed up in houses and home depots and dealerships, constructing chromed-up Chrysler-brand tanks and preparing for wars being waged between their ears. Mercenaries without suitors, those seeking vengeance and death in all the wrong things; happily hating all the wrong people...
Saddle up. This is Truck Country.
re ipsa loquitor
BP
Next up--A Post That Makes Sense!
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