1. Oops

I’ve just returned from a trip to Tulsa for a family-visit/belated-Christmas shindig. During this sojourn, I refused to let myself check email or WordPress activity. (Excessive drinking helped assuage the guilt. For those of you who do not drink, just pretend that I annihilated excessive amounts of chocolate, thus allowing me to live a carefree life for a few days.)

Ergo, I am woefully behind in responding to comments or even acknowledging the existence of other bloggers. Please accept my humble apologies for such a dereliction of duties. I am truly sorry, and I will strive to not let this happen again. (Those of you who have been visiting Bonnywood for more than a week know that the preceding sentence is a complete lie, albeit my prevarication is nothing compared to anything that Trump has said, ever. I am always woefully behind with my administrative duties here at Bonnywood. Same as it ever was. And will be. Rinse and repeat.)

2. Déjà vu

The drive from Dallas to Tulsa will damage your soul. The return drive will snuff out any spiritual goodness that managed to survive the first run through The Land of Banal Existence. There is absolutely nothing of any interest whatsoever along the way. Unless you have a predilection for cracked-walnuts proffered at roadside stands, a burning desire to purchase a John Deere tractor, and/or an unresolved childhood issue that compels you to date someone named Buford who may or may not be the result of boredom-induced incest on a random Saturday night. (“I don’t know what happened, Pa. I was at the barn dance over to Clodhopper City and somebody gave me some chocolate. I woke up the next morning feelin’ a bit gassy.”)

Just say no. And keep driving. (Lock your doors.)

3. Technology is Erotic

Thank you, Sirius XM, as well as my beloved partner who had the wisdom to both install a receptacle in my vehicle that supports a mobile Sirius receiver AND bring along said mobile device for this questionable adventure. We had roughly 7,000 radio channels from which to choose, courtesy of some satellite that is orbiting Earth along with 70,000 other things that could fall out of the sky at any second. Otherwise, in the barren wasteland that southern Oklahoma has repeatedly proven to be, we would be forced to listen to the weak signals from tiny local radio stations, with most of those signals concerning farm reports and crop totals. Have you ever listened to a farm report on the radio? Of course you haven’t. And pray that you never do.

4. Do you really expect me to eat that?

Out of desperation and a possible sugar imbalance, aided and abetted by the fact that I was experiencing a degree of anxiety over-whelmence (yes, I just made that word up, but I’m sure it will be trending on Twitter within seconds) due to the fact that I was once again in Oklahoma against my better judgment, I pulled into a surprisingly-expansive convenience store/truck stop in Atoka, Oklahoma. First, I took advantage of the personal-recycling station, as I needed to do so and something told me it was rather important that I mark my territory in some way, lest Buford offer me some chocolate at the barn dance. Then Partner and I ambled our way to the “deli section”, mostly out of curiosity that they even had such.

To our astonishment, said section offered a startling array of things that people were expected to put in their mouths after a financial transaction at the counter.

Nothing in the array spoke to me in any way, whatsoever. Even the pizza slices had an other-worldly quality that reminded me of old “X-Files” episodes. (How do you mess up pizza? You put some bits and bobs on a circle of dough and you bake it. Such an easy-to-follow directive should not lead to something that looks like the roadkill we spied as we zipped past mile-marker 137 a few miles back.)

We fled, empty-bladdered and empty-handed.

On the return trip, we stopped again at this establishment, just to see if something miraculous had somehow transformed the offerings. (After all, everyone deserves a chance at redemption. If we don’t follow that philosophy, this country is completely screwed.)

We fled, once more. I might have even screamed in terror, but any vocalizations on my part were drowned out by Buford revving the engine of his newly-purchased John Deere tractor in the parking lot. Everybody who was working in the deli came out to cheer him on and see if he wanted any pizza.

5. Karma, reverse-engineered.

As we rolled into Dallas earlier this evening, we immediately encountered rabid jerks on the highways who will cut you off just because they can, endless examples of the same restaurant-chains popping up every few miles, designer stores offering over-priced crap that nobody really needs, radio stations that play the same five songs in annoying repetition, and a complete lack of roadside stands where one can buy cracked walnuts and a jar of homemade honey.

I suddenly wanted to listen to farm reports as I drove my way through miles of nothingness.

Cheers.