Like the rest of what we had seen of Dallas, the mall was something akin to Epcot: a stray piece of someone else’s world that Texans just had to have. It could only be compared to Vegas and Disneyworld. The big attraction for my girls was Ed Hardy. I couldn’t believe it. The nazi-like motorcycle and tattoo art had finally gone mainstream. I couldn’t help but recall a time when leather-clad Harley-rats didn’t bathe for weeks, subjected women to gang rape, and beat anti-war activists senseless. Somehow modern-day hipsters forgot about how these rat bastards attacked concert goers at Altamont, and how they beat anti-war demonstrators senseless while the police looked on.

My brain rejected the whole “Death before Dishonor” and Special Forces logos as an aberration. There was something creepy and dark and fiendish about flaming skull designs, and they reminded me that we have spawned a whole generation of lazy and brain damaged posers that never knew the history of the images they wear. Beatniks, Hippies, and Punk Rockers never bought their shit off the rack. Now, originality was brand name. What’s next? White rap and hip hop?

These days however it’s all a “fashion statement.” I guess the first sign of America’s dysfunctionality is our lack of memory: a form of historical Alzheimer’s. No wonder that after the debacles in Southeast Asia and Lebanon, only a degenerate pinhead like George Bush would lead the country into another land war. The son-of-a-bitch should be doing hard labor on a rock pile for what he did. I left my wife and daughters at the store while I went in search of strong drink.

I was good and relaxed for the return trip to the hotel. Instead of the traffic-packed highway, the driver took us through Jerry Jones’ neighborhood in Turtle Creek. He’s the owner of the Cowboys who had just spent a cool two billion dollars on a stadium outside of town. The neighborhood was chocked full of Tudor-style mansions, right out of jolly-ole England. Again, there wasn’t anything in the architecture that was reminiscent of the Lone Star State.

That night we had dinner with a close friend and his partner at a little French restaurant in Highland Park named L’Ancestral. In fact, the area is one of the more original parts of the city. It was close to the university and the buildings were vintage ’20s and ’30s constructions. The most impressive piece of Americana was the old-style soda fountain and ice-cream parlor that was still operating. It was priceless gem in an area that is made and remade every twenty years.

Dinner was also wonderful and so was the company. Joining us was my good friend Francois, a 19th-century decadent poet who, by some twist of fate, was born in the late 20th century and sent to live in Dallas. He is probably the only absinthe-drinking professor left on the planet. He still hadn’t learned to drive, was desperately clinging to an age in which poets and intellectuals congregated in cafes and spoke of things that mattered. The company and the meal were great: homemade pâté, good onion soup, and pork medallions to die for. After dinner, we headed back to the hotel to turn in.

Despite the foray into Harley-Rat fashion, it was a good day.

Cross-posted in My Ongoing Struggle with Misanthropy:

About the Author

Jimmy Gabacho

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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