Back in the Folk

I pulled out of my house at roughly 6:45 a.m., got through Chicago traffic about forty minutes later, and was cruising smoothly on the interstate by 8:00 a.m. I think you can really tell a lot about our country by the drivers you see on our interstates. First of all, everybody is always in a huge hurry, usually willing to cut someone off at any moment to better their position. Like most Americans, truck drivers feel some sort of entitlement to the roads. They are about as greedy and expectant as it gets, expecting you to know that their blinker doesn't mean they want to get over, it means they ARE coming over and you better get the hell out or get run over. And of course there are always those lame ducks on the road who seem to have no idea that driving in the left lane under 55 is as bed as it gets. Every once in a while you'll find that occasional nice driver letting others in which obviously makes you feel guilty and promise yourself you'll be that person next time. And yet no matter how big of a rush the asshole is in front of you or the soccer mom flipping you off to the right because you didn't let her in, there is always enough time to accessorize one's car. What started off simple enough as just personalized license plates and animal print steering wheel covers (Jeni) has expanded into a market all on its own. Bumper stickers became back windshield stickers galore, personalized plates also have personalized borders, and the back dash is a car's shelf giving way to picture frames and Beanie babies. The only thing I want to know is why. Why do you think I'd like to know that Ginny is #6 on the softball team and Mikey Jo is on honor roll and Kara Michelle would rather be shopping, and my personal favorite the Casey Anferny "I'd rather be killing my daughter" sticker. I know more about the mini van I followed all through Ilionois than I do about my extended family members who aren't on Facebook. Keep your personal info on the book where it should be. And side note yoga instructors, a sticker with the downward dog position and the caption "I like doing it doggy" is never appropriate. Children ride on these interstates, cmon people have some class.

I pulled into Norfolk right around 3:40 p.m. To my delight I noticed the blue and white striped tents were already setting up, that means only one thing: firecracker season! If there's one thing Norfolks' are good at it's lighting firecrackers. We may not have oceans or big lakes, but we've got smoke bombs and Roman Candles which sometimes are just as fun. I only hope some day I can raise little hick children like myself who by the age of two are lighting Lady Fingers on the ground, by three lighting Black Cats and throwing them, and by four barely flinching when the occasional artillery happens to pop in their face. I truly pity the city children who have only ever experienced firecrackers from afar, it's no way to live. The Fourth just isn't the Fourth without a firecracker mishap or emergency. Growing up, the 4th of July always transformed my backyard into a mini Vietnam between my dad, brother and drunken uncle Pat and cousin Layne. Outside the safety of my house nowhere was off limits from bombs being thrown and limbs being burnt. Explosions were everywhere, neither side had any idea what they were fighting for or who they were fighting against, and my drunk uncle was always on the look out for an Asian hooker. It was a crazy, messed up time and to this day I still have flashbacks where I wake up sweating and screaming for Lieutenant Dan.

But what I am most excited for is Ricardos tonight, the most inauthentic yet delicious Mexican food Norfolk has to offer. I get uncomfortable just thinking about how much I am going to eat in a few hours. "Mexican full" is a full unlike any other food. It's almost like you can feel your Caucasian insides wrenching and squirming from all of the unfamiliar little cholos of grease and spice thugging around in their wife beaters and Nike Cortezs' talking shit. I can't wait, it's going to be a battle in my stomach, and the Mexicans always win. O'le! Or in the words of my Spanish workbook Ojo!