Terminal Illness

There is no one word that can sum up the terminal disease that is American pop-"culture." Cheap, pretentious, trashy, tacky, apathetic, destructive, whack, piss-awful, ohforfuckssake, respectyourself, christwhyme, and of course, regrettable all come to mind but still do not encompass the entire tragedy. However, if the tool of the description was to be changed from a word to a place, technically the name of a place, it would be entirely unnecessary to waste a syllable beyond the two it takes to utter Scottsdale.

This debacle of a city that sits just north of the university that M.T.V. built wallows in the intrinsically trash taste that comes with the prevalence of the newly rich. The clubs and night life scene that defines Scottsdale is the place to see these untreatable victims of the American culture disease. No matter how much money these people spend on drinks, Escalades, plastic surgery, and starter castles they will remain cheap and unapologetically Acme Brand human beings who are incapable of thinking farther than their arms can reach and deeper than the piss filled kiddie pool at the YMCA. If there is anything that I am running from it is these people.

As I stood outside the club in Delhi looking at the too tight T-shirt Sphens and the rest of the train wreck I decided it was best to call Tine before fleeing the city now that I knew Scottsdale had chased me across the planet.

T: "No, You're in the wrong spot."

Imagine my relief.

B: "Oh thank fucking God!!! I was about to scratch this whole Turkey thing, Jesus! I was so scared this was actually the place. I"m trynta avoid these people like a fucken infection. I really didn't think you'd chill in a spot like this."

And Horror

T: "Well wait. It's on the 'N' block."

B: "..."

T: "Close to the bakery"

B:"???"

T:"Oh okay, I see you."

B:"...???... :( "


It's strange, I said something awful and still felt like she owed ME the explanation. Oddly enough it seemed like she agreed and gave a perfectly understandable one. Recognizing the traditionally reciprocal nature of such encounters, I went on to explain why I looked like Osama at a wet T-shirt contest held at The Mall of America. Some unpleasantries sprinkled with good intentions later, it was mutually agreed upon that the best course of action was for me to drink to the point that full value had been garnered from the "drink all night" bracelet that all ready had been purchased, and then get the hell out of dodge while she remained with the group of friends she had promised to go out with.

Good will rekindled I parked myself-alone- at the front of the crowded bar and proceeded to make all three bartenders extremely nervous by pouring one cranberry and vodka after another down my face with a ferocity that is typically reserved for billionaire alcoholics who have had their bodies kryogenically frozen for a century then thawed after the absolute confirmation that they had outlived their spouse and would not be required or expected to leave any inheritance to that gold-digging bastard/bitch.

Fifteen minutes later a remix of "Sexy Back" chased me into the night. I stumbled to an Auto Rickshaw and happily paid too much to return to the back-packer ghetto with the high hopes of never finding myself in a similar situation.