The Gonzo Wolf

A long time ago, in a rural-on-the-cusp-of-suburban neighborhood not far away, I ran into my first real person from TV Land. I was a kid; I didn’t know better. I truly thought that since he was from California, he probably knew movie stars. We start out dumb, and some of us stay there.

Throughout the years, he always said the Mid-West and The South were about ten years behind, stylistically, when it came to fashion and whatnot. He was right; lifestyles from opposite coasts have finally trickled down into the hay fields and hoods of North Texas. Idle hands from lack of farming?

The one thing I noticed when working in the fine art field, is that everyone had a side-hustle. Whether you lived in Los Angeles or New York, sleep was an afterthought for the highly motivated. There’s always money to be made somewhere, somehow, someway.

Now that these influences have trickled down into the American map’s steamy crotch (I blame soc-med glorification), I have to deal with the watered-down, sneaky Pete versions of these entrepreneurs. There’s always an ulterior motive; a side quest, a knock at the back door.

Today, I was approached by a music producer, who managed to sweeten the pot with his well-rehearsed veteran brotherhood spiel. Suddenly, it turned into one of those bits where he and his wife were life coaches and deal in insurance plans.

Dallas is an insurance town.

Some are known for steel; others for barbecue. Dallas? Regardless of what that old television show claimed, we here are in the “In-Case-Shit-Happen” business. Credit to Chris Rock for that. I don’t feel like looking it up. Someone will correct me if I’m wrong.

Now, North Texas “go get ’em” couples sell insurance and real estate instead of Amway, sex toys, and all the other pyramid schemes our parents tried and failed. They still play on those same weaknesses, though.

They know the temperature of this country. They know the need to belong. This guy stooped to the ‘we both served’ level of pitiful, just to try and sell me insurance.

He almost had me. Everyone I know lives far enough away to where no one truly gives a damn to make the drive in either direction. I thought for a second I may have finally made a connection with someone else outside my old stomping grounds.

I was wrong again.

I really must stop speaking to strangers. It’s a trap. I thought there’d be an age limit for that old elementary school lesson, but I guess not. Back then, they just wanted to give us candy and fondle our unmentionables. Now, they want our banking information.

I seriously feel dirty. Like that episode of Diff’rent Strokes when Arnold and Dudley go to the bicycle shop.