bring the noyz

Last weekend around this time I found myself completing the five-plus hour drive from the desperately still clinging to the left by its fingernails oasis of my adopted hometown out into the Flatland. Yes, I've been there before, a time or two, so it was not quite as baffling as it has been in the past.

But it is still freakin' weird.

And that is really an understatement.

And I mean really.

Where to begin?

We packed up The Boy and all his gear into the Family Truckster to make the trip to attend The Wife's 10 Year High School Reunion. Yes that's right, 10 freakin' years. Boy, was it ever a hoot. I shall make no more mention of the event and leave the details for her to share with you some day.

As for other details of our trip. . .

When the barrenness of the desolate basin begins to give way to the fringes of the civilization you are greeted by this sign:

Hometown indeed. The sky may be the limit if you inherited the fortune your grandaddy built doing business with the Nazis, but it seems to me that the majority of the folks out there are struggling to scratch out a living and keep the fringes of a desert at bay.

For this trip we stayed in a hotel. The Wife's parents, like mine, recently sold the family home and moved away as a prelude to retirement. We were fortunate in that The Wife's mother also returned for the weekend. My mother-in-law returned to celebrate a belated birthday with friends and to spend time with her only grandchild, The Boy. Thankfully she got us the corporate rate The Wife's father's company pays. Also quite thankfully, she had the neighboring room and was invaluable in providing care for The Boy for the weekend while The Wife and I visited with a few her old friends but mostly she was just reminded of why she really dislikes and never wants to see again most of the people she went to school with.

We made it to our hotel, the area's self-proclaimed only four-star hotel, and checked in. All I have to say about that is if that's the service they offer at a four-star hotel I'm glad we didn't settle for lesser accommodations. You'd think a four-star hotel would have a doorman or a bellboy, or at least automatic doors so you wouldn't be left to struggle with your baggage as you wrestled the building into the lobby. But then again, this is the Flatlands.

Friday night was full of nervous reunions and half drunken re-acquaintances for The Wife at an official informal get together at a some honky-tonk bar that featured a small yet fully functional and quite real bull-riding arena as the primary feature of its back patio. The walls were adorned with autographed photos of famous bull riders.

Famous bull riders? Talk about a small subset of fame.

I quietly stood around taking in the scenery and wondering who was surprised to see who, who got bald and who got fat. As I had neither context nor history, I had no reason to care. I slowly sipped Lone Star and played the role of the perfect supportive husband, which of course I am, so I wasn't really playing. I politely met lots of people I'll never see again while chit-chatting away. I primarily spent the night making sure the The Wife and her BFF since like the sixth grade never had an empty cup. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it. And it's not like it didn't have its perks. . .
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