For a wild time, nothing beats Brandy Station apartments– a series of low-cost rentals that brought in the most crazy, dysfunctional behavior you could ever come to expect out of the apolitical sort of George W. Bush crowd as lives are thrown-around like matchsticks with low-down country-music figuring. . . . . with a substratum of ignorance so dense– you come to understand why life is like a speech out of a Wild West dime-novel.
Hard lines, sunken cheeks– and virginal country fucking and drug-use with a curtsy to square-dancing patter and a Citgo station full of booze at the top of the hill as life is just one slick opportunity after another for the self-made.
Every man a genius, “build a better mousetrap” toward personal home business acumen like pioneers rubbing their hands around a camp-fire. I guess if some men can become billionaires in this lottery, you’ll never give up the idea that you’ll be rich as trash cable novelty shows as your only witness, the rumbling plain like dead-end “ground-zero” to “old time religion” and glib war-mongering like a news cartoon showing the soldiers at Imo Jima jamming a flag-pole up Osama bin Laden’s ass.
A society based around mutual-suspicion and anger as life proves to be just like an empty beer-bottle. . . . . you always know what you’re going to get. To be white and frazzled in a beat-up old undershirt as life is oppositional “to the cities”, squinting at an internet screen and not really comprehending what you’re looking at as the main point is patriotism and scraggly, day-by-day danger on the slick, plastic sheen of Chuck Norris television.
Old Western town politics– good clothes, thrown-out into the street in a cat-fight, a woman spurned as it was a culture of golf clubs and televangelism and beer and cheap mud like fire crackers and church carnivals and a high-pitched country voice of some “tin-foil hat piss-ant” trying to sound scientific– like a 1960’s moon-man holding up his hand in peace, “wagon train to the stars” as there’s nothing so “universally translated” as a rest-room.
Beetlejuice would have a field day, here– blending-in and up to some wild things like interacting with the locals, reading the want-ads, and otherwise dreaming of riches as the grass is always greener, for a boast about the other-side like some frazzled junk-cat in a Hawaiian shirt and sandals walking up the road with a dim, buzzed expression on his drunken face. Life is glittery and mean, like the soft honey-bun of proselytizing that says “you’ll burn forever” for standing aloof.
This is how “the other half” lives. Glory unto Beetlejuice 2!