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The McIntire Conspiracy
"It's better to be loved by the righteous few than to be liked by a lukewarm many."
- Noble
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Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Americana
In 1992, I graduated from The College of Santa Fe (motto: "Like Community College With Dorms!"), tended bar for a couple of extra months, bought a dog (a crazy German shepherd named Thelonious Mutt) and a truck and took off on a trip around the country.
I've bored you with detailed descriptions of assorted hijinx from my trip before, so I'll skip the misty-eyed chesnuts this time around. But I bring it up for a reason.
Little did I know that I'd be travelling this country at the end of an era, when you could go to different places in America and have them be, well, different. I ate different food in the South than I did in the Northwest. The beer tasted different in Arizona than it did in Maine. I bungee jumped in Oregon because they have cliffs there, and I went to a rodeo in Texas because they have bigass cows there. A po' boy in New Orleans was a completely different experience than a burger in Almira, Washington.
Those days are over, friends, and we're rapidly becoming one homogenized, bland, milquetoast strip mall from coast to coast. It's all Subway, TGIFridays, Old Navy, and WalMart. And it saddens me.
But the quirks, the kinks, the flavor of different parts of the country are still there, if you know where to look, and it's these things that keep America as great as we claim to be.
I love the fact that you can order a beignet in French in New Orleans.
I love the fact that you can get scrapple at a gas station in Pennsylvania.
I love the fact that southern strippers are still a category unto themselves.
And I love the fact that when you play for the Red Sox and then go play for the Yankees, you get your handsome ass booed.
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