No More Mr. Nice Car
We tread on no one and nothing, but the road which our rubber meets. We love nothing so much as rolling past green cultivated fields on the vacant country roads which we ply with care and caution. As a general rule the smell of death wafts into the car roughly every fifteen minutes. There's always some dead thing decomposing just off the road, but today we smell it in urban areas as well.
We pulled into Santee, SC, this weekend with high hopes, but found low living and decay. When I-95 effectively closed all business activity on Hwy. 301, Santee simply shifted a few hundred yards east to the new interstate highway. Now, even that Superior Vena Cava cannot sustain life in Santee. The happy images promoting golf, seafood and oversized Bass have been replaced with a grim graphics. During an economy in which only guns and booze show growth, it pays to see what sort of art is imitating life
That's our new mascot, our new flag. The old Gadsden Flag's warning: " Don't 'Tread on Me " seems redundant for our new standard. The recession has pulled many teeth, but this seems like a perfectly fitted set of new dentures. That old social fabric has begun to rot like those unsold towels down at Santee's Outlet Hell. We saw this stunning mural painted upon a run of the mill juke joint just past a burned down motel. We found it captivating much as the werewolf is charmed by his new hair. Old Zevon fans will remember how " Patty Hurst heard the burst of Roland's Thompson's gun...and bought it. So have we. We like it, love, it, yes we do.