the red state within

I know I've discussed this before, but I have to tell you, all three of you who read this, that I was at Kmart today buying Little Caesars pizza. Yes, I just said that I bought pizza inside of a Kmart. But, c'mon, it was only 5 dollars! Anyway, I put my order in, and Benjamin and I set off to explore the aisles, in an effort to kill the 20 minute wait. I gave Ben a small plastic hanger from a rack to distract him--he loves hangers--and I pushed him towards the beverage aisle to pick up some soda. As I was rounding a corner stocked with pvc roll-up shades, I encountered a man. This was not just any man, it was a man boasting a full Fu Manchu mustache, a NASCAR hat, skin tight dark blue jeans, work boots, and, to top it all off---I swear to you this is true--a knife inside a black leather knife holder attached to his belt. The six foot women in front of him with the fried red perm and excruciatingly translucent leggings dropped her pillow at this man's feet, and he picked it up for her, and they began to lively discuss something--likely why they both enjoy George W., guns, Jesus, and hot dogs--in twangy, almost Southern accents. Now, where did these people come from? I live an hour away from Los Angeles, and here, in the walls of Kmart, I find that I don't belong. I find women in lace-up boots and acid-washed jeans and banana clips staring at ME as if I don't belong. I'm like Marissa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny, a big city girl in the small town, except we're supposedly from the same place. It doesn't matter where you live. WalMart and Kmart import these people. Whether they come in by crate in the middle of the night, or via secret tunnel direct from Kansas to the motor oil aisle, I couldn't tell you. Something is happening. These people are not from California. I just know it.