And The Angel's Gonna Wear Her Pink Shoes

Hot Saturday afternoon in the summer where Las Vegas Strip pools are overteeming with young twenty somethings compelled to waste the finer moments of their life away paying for drinks to hand to hot young women who dance like drunk coked out strippers in the inescapable heat. While driving by the not so inhabited Paradise Rd making my toward one of the many local bars for a few beers before engaging my own diluted carnal desires on those same local strip pools, I drove by a woman armed with only pink shoes, a backpack, and a parasol to guard herself from the overwhelming presence of the slightly descending sun. The woman did not appear to have a care in the world, an attitude like one might see in those early fourties black and white movies where the main characters sort of took all of life's trails and tribulations like hills on the road, even an unpaved road. Today in a society where even the most trival of events can send people off the deep end, this woman had wisdom, patience, and an ability to seperate her own life from the events of a greater plane. What did she care marching along the back alleys of Las Vegas with no real direction or involvment, it sort of made me jealous to see someone who was so polarly opposed from my current place in life, locked down by nothing, no real agenda, no bills, or responsibilities outside of finding a place to sleep, some food, and maybe a few interesting things to pass the time.

She was her own personal caravan setting out across the modern desert of America, full of empty skyscrapers, foreclosed homes, and abandoned industrial facilities, to her these objects must look no different than the artifacts of ancient cultures to the anthropologist, a landscape of 21st century covered wagons gone bust, laying on the side of the road, cloth caponies burned right through with hundreds of arrows lodged into the wooden structure, total collapse, human bones slowly covered by the sands of unconventional winds, unpredictable nature, a downfall well foreseen but unheeded, these are the mean streets the lonesome traveler and her pink shoes walk past on her way through the lands, makers of the dream blowing dishwashing soap bubbles for the tourist hordes to dance inside, to fornicate, bending back the elastic waste of an overplayed production for a new crowd who has somehow even in 21st media ubiqutiousness not yet seen or heard about the miracle disaster of South Beach Miami pop culture on the dry lake bed of Nevada, or the ever increasing glut of subhuman congregations weilding three foot plastic drink cups in the shape of rock guitars, the masses coming to roost at one dollar craps tables, stuff into rooms ten deep, as Italian made sports cars splash waste water cesspools gathered at the edge of street corner gutters on the passing working class tourists. This illusion is dead, made for mass consumption, tell no one the party is over, the woman walking down the alley either does not care or has no clue and is lucky regardless, as I watch the generation influenced by my shallow behavior repeat the same mistakes, done in by the media, society, and each other to give up caring, mattering, and ultimately wallow in apathy, all for a chance to immerse their minds in the images and ideas they get from the telemarketing barons of the global junkmarket interzone broadcast facilities programming the general public's next move, next thought, and next idol, stay tuned.