Welcome to Dallas. Population: Me
Funny how things change from one locale to the next. While I ate Chicken Parm Hero’s in New York, I ate Chicken Parm Subs on Cape Cod. I now eat Po’ Boys.
There are some things, though, that are universal. Like driving. It seems that everywhere I’ve lived, except for New York, bad drivers are like a plague. You see, there is this adorable little stick that comes out of the side of your steering column, and you may be shocked to find out that it’s not called “pretty arrow shaped light on dashboard maker”. It’s called a “turn signal”, or if you’re hip with the auto jargon, a “blinker”. Odd as it may be, these nifty devices help when you want to maneuver in traffic. Say you want to change lanes. Instead of stopping and sitting there in a lane, looking like the idiot you are, simply click that “blinker” in the direction you wish to go, and voila! Other drivers are now aware of your intentions, and may, in fact, let you go. Crazy, huh? Other times you may want to use this device: making a turn. No, really! Ever notice that people may sometimes beep at you for sitting in the road? Bastards, right? Well, it seems that mind reading, while very common, is not universal. A lot of times those people may not realize you want to make a turn, and may try to either (a) pass you on the left, a bummer when making left turns with the crunching metal and all; (b) get out and punch you through your window; (c) drive over your car with their big, big SUV.
It’s every day since moving to the sweltering city of Dallas that I’ve had a near-death experience on the freeway. At least once per day I come close to peeing my pants in my car. I mean semi’s cutting off semi’s. Big, gas guzzling Hummer’s weaving through traffic at 75MPH in the rain (oh, have I mentioned the Biblical Flooding here?).
Ok, so back to the regional differences. In San Francisco, where I lived and worked for the better part of seven years, we had things that would irk us. People calling the cable cars “trolleys”, or tourists calling the city “Frisco”. No biggie. In Dallas, as is true in most of Texas, people are proud. Proud to the point of psychotic. You got a flag? I got one bigger, redder, whiter and bluer. You got a truck? I got one louder, higher and with a big-ass fuck off “Proud to be Native Texan” sticker. You got a barbeque? Mine can cook up some of the best gosh darn bbq this side of a mules ass. Proud to be Texan. Proud to be an American. Proud to Vote Republican. Proud to Have Hemorrhoids. There’s more pride here than a bear in chaps strutting down Market Street in late June.
At my old SF job, we had two conference rooms: The Big Conference Room and The Small Conference Room. At my current temp assignment: The Long Horn Conference Room (read: Big. Big like steer.) and the Star Conference Room (read: Not as big, but nothing is “small” in Texas).
All that said, Texas is good. Dallas is a fine city, if you know where to go. My friend Z visited me last week, and said the same thing I did when I first came here last year. “It’s not what I expected at all.” She said she liked it. She was waiting to see cowboys and gun racks, and we got ‘em, but we hide ‘em well. In Arlington. And, sad for me, the town on “King of the Hill”, Arlen, is fictitious. Bummer. And we got some great BBQ here. And damn fine Cajun food. It’s different for sure, but if everything was always the same, wouldn’t it get boring?