Thursday, September 10, 2009

Ode to My Hendo Home: Part 1

Oh Henderson...
Oh Hendo...
Before I came from Henderson, I wanted so badly to be from Henderson. I was a Las Vegas island dweller, living in track housing surrounded by scary looking cacti and sharp, pointy rocks. There were no sidewalks, no parks, only streets. Escape was in the dirt lot next to the newly built freeway. From there, I could see the whole valley spread out with even more track housing and, of course, the long seam of blinking lights
with all of their deceptive promises. Yeah sure, build a mega-urban city in the middle of the desert, we've got plenty of water (psst...rural Nevada, screw you). Come on down, drop your blue collar cash that you've saved all year for your paid vacation on our tables. That's small fry stuff. The real money that keeps the lights blinking is wagered in places like the Mansion guarded by the gilded lion. Big Money doesn't pay for bottle service, hookers, penthouses, tickets to the next attempt at Broadway on LVB, or even the damn private jet that picked their asses up in Timbuktu. Damn those distracting deceptions and false promises.
Though I've always loved the surprisingly obstinate art scene side of Las Vegas, my heart lies in Henderson. In my little yellow house, I'm on the other side of the looking glass from my former desert island. Here, the Basic B greets you with the morning sun. The air's a little clearer and the birds a little more willing to serenade. Greetings from Hendo.

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