Iowa.
Ah, the Upper Midwest. Nowhere else has the knack of making me feel like a goony freak, like a total light martian, like a misfit just awaiting the next passive-aggressive application of xenophobic bias. Ah, home. A cafe gas station in Iowa stole 60 bucks from me. Naturally, I entered the establishment to straighten out the situation, and I think I actually heard a needle scratch off the record when I walked in. Literally everyone in the place turned and stared at me. There were snickers. And leering. And brow arching and hands on hips and dropped forks and the kind of GET OUT mentality that seems to come baked in on every chip in this part of our geography. Okay, so I was wearing a silk dress and a fedora and big moviestar sunglasses and Chucks. So? Imma wear what I want to in your 95-degree sweatbox of a state. Silk is a natural fiber. Heard of it? It breathes! Sunburned scalp is something a body makes sure she lives through only once. Huge sunglasses are the only way to protect your eyes from UV rays coming at you from the profile. And Chucks are sensible shoes and a good way to make it through walks in sharp straw unscathed! I actually think Iowa is kind of cool. They are politically progressive, have embraced wind energy like no other state, have beautifully paved interstates and know how to make a decent ear of corn. This is all big-picture coolness, though. If a girl and her gay dog can’t get a tankful of diesel without being made to feel uncomfortable (“Oh. California plates.” and a nice big helping of eye rolling…) then I guess you can have my $60. A small price to pay for leaving you in my dust. Next: Mario, moongazing, marriage, Minnesota.
