We were on our way out of Cabos. After a week of fast-food abstinence, the airport is the first outpost of food-court civilization. The airport in is full of the normal, strip mall fare: Cinnabun, Burger King, Filet-O-Chicken, and Pizza Hut: calories, carbs, fat and sugar. Just what the beefy American needs. It is a clear sign of decadence and destruction of Western Culture. The Islamic fascists will eventually win if they just let us eat ourselves to death. Things weren’t always this way, though. There was a time when people actually prepared food, treating it with care as they raised a poor animal until it was large enough to feed the entire family. It was then that the axe fell. But it wasn’t the high-tech mechanized slaughter hormone and steroid-crazed poultry and beef; it was the biblical sacrifice where the animal gave its life for something, and the world was thankful.  Now days, hamburger is just a product with little or no connection with an animal. If big meat companies ever figure out how to germinate pieces of steak without having to deal with the rest of the cow, they will do it.

Because it was a short flight to Dallas, we sat in the cattle section of the plane with the other big mammals. All along the way, I wondered what the Big D was going to be like. One of my few references to the place was the classic soft-core film entitled, Debbie Does Dallas, starring Bambi Woods (no relation to Tiger. Well… Ah, wait, check that. Never mind).  It was a movie that I had never seen. I was already a sex-crazed teenager that had a lot of disturbing thoughts and there was no need to make it worse.  Like the film, Surf Nazis Must Die, another classic of the high-cinema, the Debbie flick had a plot: a group of blond high school cheerleaders search for funding so they can try out for the Texas Cowgirls squad. It was a typical American Dream success story: a small-town nobody makes it big.  What did it matter if they had to screw their way to the top.

I tried to put the movie out of my mind. No one wanted to hear my sarcasm as we flew into Texas. This wasn’t the Dallas that my wife and daughters wanted to see. They were half expecting the “Yes, sir, no, ma’mam,” cowboy-boot wearing, strong silent-type, barbecue eating, Willie Nelson, and Stevie Ray Vaughn, Texas. It didn’t take long for us to realize that we were heading for trouble.
 
After arrival at DFW, we checked into the Rosewood-Cresent Hotel. It’s a nice place, but it serves six dollar espressos. The decor was modeled on Parisian architecture from the 17th and 18th centuries; the difference was that the building is a modern high rise. It is as if the architect was trying to outdo the original. The entrance to the hotel had a Cinderella-style circle drive for horse-drawn carriages, cobble-stone driveway, a fountain located in the center, and a 30-foot wrought -iron arched gateway to receive the guests.
 
I wandered around the lobby while my wife checked in. I try to keep moving. If you stand in one place for too long, someone asks you if you need something. The bellman, concierge, doorman, maid and room service guy all have their hands out like beggars on skid row. For five bucks they offer to carry your bags from the taxi to the lobby, and some other guy will cart them the rest of the way for another five. I prefer to carry my own bags and keep the cash. I’m cheap: what can I say?

Cross-posted at My Ongoing Struggle with Misanthropy: http://jimmygabacho.com/?p=586

Gabacho– according to the Dictionary of the Spanish Royal Academy– is derived from an old Provençal word “gavach,” meaning a person from the foothills of the Pyrenees who spoke incorrectly. These days, it means “outsider,” somebody who just doesn’t fit in.

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