Out of the Frying Pan

The glitz and glam of the city, all that excess, that infatuation with polish, image, brand name status, superficial, muckity-muck attraction took quite a hit in the wind and sun of rural New Mexico. Out here life was hungry, lean, and the dust tended to beat up anything that wasn't made to last. The fancy stuff got picked up by the wind and carried off into some remote canyon never to be seen again, unless it toughened up and grew a pair. Fatuous posing was not exactly on the menu of ways to be. So, as you might guess, I had a hard time of it. My fancy bike tires cracked and the paint faded, and no matter how much I tried, nobody gave a shit about my complaints of a hard life. My wimpy sandals had to be traded for some cowboy boots and my cheeks got good and red from the sun. I wrinkled up like a prune in all that dry, cold air, but my hands thickened and my hopes of an easy day got taken with everything else that wasn't tied down.