Outside in the cold distance, a wild cat did growl. Two riders were approaching, and the wind began to howl…
-Bob Dylan, All Along The Watchtower
If there is a hell in America, I’m putting my vote on Utah. The place is mostly uninhabitable desert with frigid winters and blistering summers, and its primary body of water is undrinkable poison. If you choose to live there, there’s a better than even chance that your neighbors on either side will believe, if you’re anything like me, that you start your day by lighting up a transgression and brewing up a hot pot of veniality, and end your day with an icy sin and tonic (Yeah, I know that was lame, but fuck you: I’m sick).
And not only will they believe that, but they will consider it their duty to pound on your door at inconvenient times to tell you to stop. Utah’s like living with your parents, assuming that your dad suddenly developed an inexplicable hard-on for bow ties, and your mom suddenly started advising you to give up this ugly little business about a career and find some nice girls to settle down with.
Between the weather and the company, the only positive I can see to living in Utah is that the line at Starbucks is probably always short. Of course, entering it will require the raincoat-and-shades wardrobe of your average 1970’s urban pervert shopping for fisting porn, your vente cup will always smell like industrial hand sanitizer, and asking for it “very light” will mean that the well-scrubbed kid behind the counter only horks one lunger into it.
In the spirit of the opening of Watchmen, a story that on at least one level is about people behind masks with hidden desires and motivations, I have a confession to make: I get a real kick out of 