A Red River Rush Hour

Rush hour . . . through the bedroom door, across the living room, grabbing a cup of coffee, and out to the porch. That's the morning rush hour that's been on my mind the last couple of days as I've researched an article for our employee newsletter. Our firm owns a couple of cabins in Red River, New Mexico, and for the last 2-3 days, I've been reading through the notebooks left in the cabins for the last 30+ years for guests to sign and make comments (I'll post some later).

We stayed in Red River a couple of years ago and have requested one of the cabins for a week this summer. If I read one more page of fire-in-the-fireplace-30-degrees-in-the-morning-hiking-up-to-the-lake-touring-Taos-and-Santa-Fe-feeding-the-chipmunks-watching-the-hummingbirds-fishing-in-the-creek-behind-the-cabin-snow-in-the-mountains-Jeep-tours-horseback-rides-tops-of-mountains-ski-lifts-wildflowers-cutting-wood-sleeping-soundly-in-mountain-air-doing-nothing, I'm heading west tomorrow.

Here's Kim and me on the front porch of the newer cabin in 2006:

More Redneck Road Rage

To paraphrase Richard Nixon, 'I am not a redneck.' Not normally anyway, but it sure seem like rush-hour traffic and those yankee immigrant drivers make me want to cue up Toby Keith (sorry, couldn't think of anybody more redneck on the spur of the moment).

I do drive a full-size Ford F-150 with a small V-8 and pipes out the side (not my doing; very popular with older daughter and her friends; keeps the neighbors awake), so a note to this morning's drivers . . .

You in the Kia SUV (Sorry Undersized Vehicle): what makes you think that tailgating me is going to make me drive faster, especially when I can barely see your luggage rack over the top of my tailgate? I'm 52 years old with two teenagers, an ex-wife and a former-Marine father-in-law with a notched-handle .45 automatic. Why would I be intimidated by your 4-cylinder stocking stuffer?

And you in the new Volvo: go ahead and try to cut me off again. My truck costs about 1/3 the price of your over-priced, hello-my-name-is-Inga toyota. Let's test out its safety features, as advertised in Affluent A** Magazine.

Whew! I feel better now.

Morning Maker: stopping at the Valero gas pumps on Loop 820 and White Settlement Road. 14 pumps, 12 filled with pick-up trucks. All others empty. Gasoline with a testosterone rush -- $2.77 a gallon.

Role Model

The Drive Home

Today's drive home (even though I left early enough to not battle rush hour), just like every day, was a b****. It brought to mind a few songs:

Welcome to Texas
Brian Burns
Welcome to Texas, don't anybody get me wrong;
We’re glad y’all came to see us, just don’t forget to go back home.
We don’t need your politics, we don’t need your prayers,we don’t need your moral compass leadin’ us anywhere.
We don’t need your business, we don’t need your art, we don’t really give a damn how you did things up north.

Screw You. We're From Texas
Ray Wylie Hubbard
So screw you, we're from Texas
Screw you, we're from Texas
Screw you, we're from Texas
We're from Texas, screw you
(Has he seen me before? I got on my cowboy boots, jeans; And Hawaiian shirt, mirrored sunglasses; And a mobile phone; I guess I look like some Port Aransas dope dealer that's out on bail; Just trying to get home)

I Don't Live in Dallas
Jarrod Birmingham
You're a whole bunch of yuppies
With nothing to do but keep Isuzu in business
We all know it's true
I'd like to sell you to Oklahoma
If they could only afford you
Cuz I don't live in Dallas
I live in Texas

Southbound 35
Pat Green
I'm staring at this ocean full of Yankees, and I'd rather be in Texas on my own.
So we were southbound 35 (okay, I live northbound on IH-35, but I do have a yankee-child wife and a pick-up . . . truck)
We were headed down the road, hit the border by the morning
Let Texas fill my soul, yeah let Texas fill my soul.

Whew! I feel better now.