Dance Sheep Dance - Sculpture - Sedona, Arizona
"Desperado, why don't you come to your senses? You been out ridin' fences for so long now.
Oh, you're a hard one. I know that you got your reasons.
These things that are pleasin' you
Can hurt you somehow..."
Yesterday, I rushed into Ralphs supermarket to pick up some refreshments for a meeting that would begin in an hour, and I really didn’t have much of an idea of what to serve the group this time.
“Drat,” I thought. The parking lot was almost full and I parked in the hinterlands reassuring myself that I needed the brisk walk to the entrance.
As I grabbed my cart, I noticed that every fearful swine flu junkie was ahead of me, wiping down their carts, then their hands, causing a line to form before I even got to the front door. Grrrr! I finally muscled my way past the wet wipers and got inside the doors. A blast of air from above blew the bejeebus out of my hair and frosted my eyeballs as I careened past other blown-from-above shoppers toward the sliced fruit aisle.
It didn’t take long to snag some treats and other grocery staples for the house and I raced toward the checkout area. Just when I thought I'd made good time and would be on my way, I ran into a wall of surly shoppers. Only two cashiers were working, so I waited in a line which snaked past what looked like a card table.
“What a stupid place to put that thing,” I thought. It was right in the middle of the aisle where people maneuver their carts into clogged check out lanes. "No wonder check out is so slow."
I could see that others were pretty cranky about it, too. Once I looked at what was on the blasted table, I just shook my head. It was the Palin book, and not one person was tempted to give this obstacle more than a passing glare. Was it because of the inconvenient location, or was it because people are tired of the hype. There is such a thing as overexposure not to mention the concept that some things (or people) do not look so good upon close examination.
The overexposure of Mrs. Palin reminds me of my bar band days when I’d observe the desperate machinations of drunk and horny women in the clubs. The “look at me” frenzy was particularly acute just before the lights went on and the clubs closed. As soon as those lights went on, every flaw on their tired faces, every streak of mascara, every broken blood vessel in their sad eyes sent a warning to the shy, or unattractive, or unskilled men debating whether or not a roll in the hay with this nightclub goddess would result in disaster. Nine times out of ten, the unlucky goddesses would wind up driving themselves home and they’d be back the next night ready to do it all over again.
Desperation, thy name is Sarah.
