We sprawled across our Screen on the Green camp of blankets, McDonald’s bags and Twizzlers, as well as the newspapers, bags, and shoes used as placeholders until more blankets arrived. At one point, we debated jamming tampon flags into the ground to claim our space.
I realized we had rebuilt Woodbridge, the epicenter of trashy Americana. All we needed was a spare tire, a camper top (used as a playhouse), and some poorly trained dogs, and we’d be my childhood neighbor’s front yard. Our little group even looked like a vignette from Cops. One of the girls was wearing a wife-beater, and we drank wine out of cheap plastic keg party cups.
Our neighbors were Fairfax. They had bags from Whole Paycheck, fancy blankets, wine in special plastic wine glasses placed in artfully designed wine glass holsters, and so-precious-you-could-die retro picnic baskets. They occasionally glanced in our direction, wondering why we had forgotten our fancy cheeses and custom tarpaulins. Much like our beloved Woodbridge, we were an oasis of redneck in a desert of yuppie hell.
OK, I admit it. Sometimes, I’m kind of a yuppie. And so are most of my friends. We like tapas, movies on E Street, and independent record stores.
But I don’t think I’ll ever stop being a girl from the WB. Give me burgers, breakfast all day, modular homes, outlet shopping, and cars with abnormally large tires. While you’re at it, throw in some guys in trucker caps and man-pris (how Kevin Federline can NOT be from the ‘Bridge is completely beyond me).
I like simplicity. I like foods I can pronounce, utensils that I can recognize, and junk food. If Slim Jims with mustard are wrong, then I don’t wanna be right. Because there's nothing more American than carcinogens with condiments. Bless you, America.
I can never make up my mind which depresses me more about the blogosphere: the number of people who believe they can write, or the number of people who believe they have something to say. Fortunately, my dear friend Kevin can write - he's a former journalist, even. So let’s check him out, and find out whether he has something to say (signs point to yes!).