Alternative Title

What we could call this is a TD/HBI #5. Instead, it's merely a field trip.

To Wal-Mart.

I'm staying in Rifle at the moment. Work has called me back to the place I love, the place I keep secret from work so I'll not confuse those two idealized worlds of "nose-to-the-grindstone" and "unshackled joy". For some reason, the desire for such intense separation drives me into a job I find interesting, though by odd proxy, a sad reminder of where humanity currently resides. We dig up pretty things out of the ground and, though admittedly adroit practice, pump out playtoys and cheap plastic crap by the oceanload. Don't get me wrong, I love my playtoys, too. But I can't help but shake my head at the mere mathematical inevitability that my love, times 7 billion, equals too much garbage, smoke and oily pelicans.

Wal-Mart becomes the unwavering Target for my disdain for other people's consumerism. At a certain level, it becomes intuitive to do the math described above. I hardly even notice the pun, my sneer turned towards the bastion of capitalism based in Arkansas, USA. That math can't have sunk in too deeply.

Walking inside of that place, the rows upon rows of shiny junk glint in the fluorescent light reflecting down from stark white ceilings. I flinched at a clamor, thinking there was a fight in an adjacent aisle. "Take cover! These roughnecks spend all day on a well losing fingers and brain cells. I know they're mean and strong from slinging those drill bits all day, and God knows they'd beat me to burger."

Around the corner, a wall of televisions show, with perfect synchronization, a familiar movie. Thank god there wasn't a gang war. It was only Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, if memory serves. This character is in a movie my young cousin tried, in vain, to convince me to watch while I was recently at the farm.

I avoided the television shrine, and moved on to lighting. I was hoping to find bike illumination for my two wheeled transport I'll ride at Burning Man. I want to be beaming Lumens while I ride through the playa, sufficiently so that no matter the amount of chemicals pulsing through someone's brain, they'll avoid smashing into me. Additionally, I'm bringing a Lacrosse helmet, just in case.

The lights were no where near the Low, Low Prices I been assured would greet my arrival. In fact, I could buy them for $10 anywhere. No need for that then...and so I started to roam.

In camping, I saw Mountain House dried backpacking food. See? We all like to eat shitty food out of a foil pouch when we're out sleeping with the bears. At REI, they sell Kathmandu Curry and Spicy Pad Thai. In Rifle, the consumer either prefers the Beef Stew or BBQ Chicken, or are assumed to be too stupid to track down that Himalayan city, let alone appreciate the delicate spices and flavorings. As such, they're presented with provincial fare reminiscent of Midwestern stereotypes.

It was someone's conscious decision to ship those particular flavors to those particular stores.

In Tools, I saw gloves that looked imbued with dexterity, a feature I'm sure I'd love while belaying friends at the crag. A painting mask would be great for any dust storms in Black Rock City, NV. Kitchen offered a cutting board and knife, two things I could put in my kitchen box for my next camping adventure. Never mind that I already have two of each.

Jesus! I can see how someone can walk out of there spending far too much loot on superfluous stuff that doesn't make their life much better.

I had to get out of there. I tried to bolt for the door, but couldn't find my way to the exits. Passing men and women, many my age, toting their several young children, towards their intended aisle, I shifted my gaze until it finally met a way out. My eyes avoided contact with any other articles which might tickle my need's imagination. All this stuff was putting up a mighty fight to separate me from the contents in my wallet, so I blasted, Millennium Falcon style, out of the front door and into the perfect summer air buzzing with glow bugs.

My hotel was just down the frontage road, not 300 yards. The wide eyed disbelief shown me by an incredulous, rusty cowboy as he drove past in his pickup told me that I was the first white to ever walk such a distance within the incorporated city limits. As I bounced back towards the corporate confines, I strolled next to a creek of sorts. In reality, the running water was more of a ditch for the irrigation runoff carrying cattle effluent towards the Rio Colorado and our fine brown friends downstream. Left unattended, however, and ferns were stretching upwards, nearly knee high. The smell was mesmerizing; spent diesel fuel mixed with wet shit over field greens.

Just before I hopped across the three lanes of traffic, I scouted the Roan Plateau and mourned its inevitably demise. Someday, that plateau will just be a hole in the ground. Fortunately, there will be plenty of development where it once stood.