A lot of things is automatic in America. It’s systematic. It’s hydromatic. Like trash cans in Atlanta airport. You throw in your stuff and a few minutes later gsssssssssshhhhhhh and your trash is gone. Same thing with the toilets. You hardly get a chance to button your pants before everything is flushed away, waiting for the next.
(Is it any wonder….???)
At the Mandarin Express (yes, that’s Chinese), the special reads: “Ham, bacon or sausage with scrambled eggs cheese and hashbrowns 3.99”
Being here is like coming home to the movies. It should be new but it really isn’t because you’ve seen it all before. Sitting in a bar full of men drinking beer and watching sports to the sorrowful sounds of Bob Dylan or some deep blues. A fat man on the right whose name is probably Jesus. A fat man on the left with tattoos on his arms who is either an ex-marine or a postman. Or both. His name is probably Jake and you don’t want to fuck with him. A thin long haired man in the corner whose name might be Fred Wuk and who used to be a hippie but now his two kids are in college and he drinks at night telling of their success. He hasn’t seen them for two years. A lonely bespectacled drunk at the other end of the bar who watches you but pretends not to.
Route 66 in downtown Albuquerque is full of fast food joints. Then, a sign: The Library. Culture? Look again. The Library: Bar and Grill. (I think I’ll have to steal that one day).
Everything not here is “out there”. Cape Town, Venezuela, up the road. Go figure. This is the centre, I mean center, of the world.