mmdcccliii

Married folks prefer the texasburger.
                                —John Ashbery

Although I’ve never been to the coast
of Houston (where Beyonce’s from)
I don’t mess with a state that gives
me constant heartburn. Maybe I

should refrain from being in att-
endance at any state, come to
think of it. Heartburn. But
time passes entirely too fast

and too slow as it is, as if
there were no time, and too

much of it. And all along the 

giant’s Death Star—because 

giants like playthings, too—

it’s not just heartburn I get.
It’s also the cold sweats
(and the extremely hot

ones), the night trains
and the heebie jeebies.
Every time. We walk
this planet but once,

says my darling in her
short and ghoulish skirt.
But there is no wind in
Texas, either. I exper-

ienced it once. It was
at the Alamo, I believe.
I’m surprised I remem-
ber. But I’m surprised

by a lot of stuff lately,
mostly in an aghast kind
of way, unfortunately.
If I were doomed to

be a sales sales rep-
resentative for the
Dallas/Ft. Worth
area, which is, let’s

be clear, a nightmare
from almost any
angle I can imagine,
at least I could showcase

the pretty boys. It’s an
art playing the part of
Fresh Meat well into your
thirties, but, well, hence

the hot flashes; the hot
sweats. Sometimes ex-
tremely hot. Like being
stuck in a stifling closet

for what seems like cen-
turies. Yes, horror mov-
ies and Texas go together
like birds of a feather.

But I can’t bear a horror
flick any more. They
give me heartburn when
they should be giving me

the heebie jeebies instead. 

I mean the good kind. Re

member those? Where was 

Agatha Christie from, any

way? It wouldn’t have 

been Texas. Whodunnits
are rad. Does it make
me interesting if I say

that cold sweats are
a bit fun; hot sweats
not at all? But let’s
be serious: I’ll

never get to be
a murder mystery.
But Texas will? Oh,
and I have a bro-

ther in Texas. I al-
almost forgot. At
least I think I do. I
know I did once. But

we haven’t spoken in
years now (people
avoid those who
seem perfectly fine

but then run into
serious long drawn-
out problems; but I
digress...). In good

times, in bad times....
Or the part about
being for richer
or poorer, in sick-

ness and in health,
til death do us part.
Yeah, that part. I
have heard that in-

cessant digression is
a sign of dementia.

It’ most certainly a

symptom of pressured

speech. And I should 

know, having been diag

nosed. But what can

one do otherwise

with sappy songs and 

broken promises. Or
Or thus I’ve been told.
Them’s the breaks.

As for my tasteful choice

for where to put up a 

picket fence residence, 

I hope he’s having a won

derful life.  The only
person I’ve known
who seems to get
the importance

of hedonism yet
has the exact opp-
osite problem with
happiness. But I’ve

learned all too well
what a mess most
everyone is (sure,
me included). My

romantic hope is 

that all find it, this

so-called happiness.
On the Death Star. 

Or wherever it is.
As for me, I might
as well non seq-
uitur into a fin-

ish—and with a
flourish—this glam-
orous Southern epic
with one more love-

ly, true (and impossible
not to do) cliché that
pretty much reeks
of the Lone Star State.

[Now I am singing, of
course:] Don’t
fall in love with
a dreamer.

Well, I can’t
exactly end
with that,
can I? I’ve

spent many
somewhat
good times
in that country

that goes on
forever and
seems like an
alternate uni-

verse. I know it
quite intimately,
you might say. I
recommend, in

fact, that you
try, for example,
Austin, for a day
or two. Or Dallas,

but only after the
sun has set. Or ent-
ering the state by
crossing the Rio

Grande on an
Amtrak train,
knowing full well
that in less than a

week you’ll be cross-
ing it once again, only
this time heading in 

the right direction.