In the Year 2323.

Jade blue seats, like the tops of mushrooms on the stainless-steel stools set in tiled concrete at the corners of taller tables, here at an Arkansas fast food restaurant.  A flat screen tv, they won’t be called flat screens in a few years, because most of them will have replaced the big boxed sets we were familiar with, well, it sits like a portrait on the wall between two huge windows that reflect orange lighted globes that match the faded glow of the winter sunset behind them.  The man on TV is a manly man, rough, smart, aggressive, financially proud and eager to share his wisdom with others, which, I find nice, actually; not that he is or has to be a manly man, but that he has found a niche in which he works to enlighten others while at the same time supporting his family.  

Music plays overhead, random, mostly love songs, which I frankly find to be over-kill.  Damn, just fall in love already.  Then play some blue-grass, or Taiko (Japanese Drumming Orchestras), or Punjabi, at least then I wouldn’t know the lyrics were about love.  I like love, I love love, but it can get on your nerves when you are falling out of love, or don’t have a love to call your own.

Back to this place.  Hands cold, air cool, computer keyboard warm.  Ahhhhh….  

The sounds are amazing.  The aggressive man, the woman singing on the speakers, the beeps of the fryers behind me, the bbbeeeepppppspspspsps of the other automatic timers that some worker must have gotten immune to since no one is stopping its alarms.  I suppose someone’s burger is gonna come out a bit dryer than usual.  That wouldn’t be a first, would it?  But it is fast food, I have no right to complain, I’m not even eating any of it right now.  Just drinking hot cocoa, while typing this up.

Txting friends, and wondering how I got from transistor radios to txting with them only 30 years later.  Lord in heaven, what will the next 30 years hold for us?  Or will it hold us?  And yes, I left the e’s out of txting on purpose.  🙂

lol

 

I’m not a purist.

 

A sign on the door says, “We Care.”  I’m sure they donate .00009% of their profits to cancer fighting institute, while spending 20% on advertising saying that they donate to a cancer fighting institute.  I’m not trying to be a cynic.  It just comes easy at this place and time.  No, actually, I wanted to share with you the beauty here.  The voices behind me, background characters, but I can hear in the way they talk and plead to each other, they’ve pleaded like that before, at home, with parents, boy friends, girl friends, children, and almost picture their infants, dropping pizza on the floor because they have no time to cook, but in their hearts they wish they did have that time so that they could give their kids good things.  I love them for that.  They help me to have hope for the future.

I hope you stayed with me.  I’m not mean.  

I can be.  I just don’t like to be.

Some of these kids are just eager to get back to a mate, and copulate, over and over again.  Remember how good that was?  I do.

Some are eager to get back and try a new version of purple haze or orange glaze.  I made that last one up, but I’m sure it won’t be long until there’s a subspecies called orange glaze.  Sounds yummy to me, even though I don’t smoke.

You know, the death of a society is the erasure of variety within that society.  I look outside and the cars all look so much the same.  Even the rich people’s cars are looking much like the poor people’s.  I guess communism and socialism in colleges has finally begun to pay off.  No differences, no variety, everybody gets the same, no classes, no variety.  I say that again because that is truly where it leads to.  When you are young, and given so much, not much of it means anything to you.  But you grow older…. and suddenly things like knickknacks mean a great deal, your late uncle or aunt was more special to you than you thought.  And a car, wow.  Your first car given to you was a plaything, a toy that ended up wrapped around tree, or towed off after blowing a stop sign because you were late for a party, the puke of last night’s party still sloshing around under the back seat.  The first car you bought with hard earned money, your kids get their hands slapped nearly off for trying to grab a french fry from the closed bag next to them.

I imagine our country will head a little more red before it realizes just how blue you get in a state of red.  A state of no no’s.  No late night rallying, can’t let competing political parties form.  No no.  Music will change, become smoother, less rebellious.  Finally, musicians will simply disappear.  Questions will only be written on leery faces walking down quiet sidewalks, not in the news papers.  Reporters are always the first to go.

Ah, but we were the stuff of criminals.  England blessed us in a way, they created their worst enemy.  Our blood is hot and always shall be.  Someone walked out of the restaurant yelling angrily at someone else.  For real.  Perfect timing.  Yes, we will fight back.  We will shed blood to get our freedoms again.  A hundred or so years later, when things are given freely to our children, they will wonder why there are classes and why things are so unfair.  Why can’t we all just be the same, have the same things….

I look outside, and the windows have now become black mirrors.  Yet, I can still see the cars rolling by.  We like to drive.  That will save us in the end, I think.  Even in zombie movies, we manage to be riding in cars.  

I love this country.  

Love songs on the speakers again.  Maybe in a few years, I will be running an underground black market, be a pirate, sell Asian or Hindu porn.  

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s