Sometimes, I have these startlingly cognizant moments of culture shock. We’re not in Kansas anymore moments when I take a slow, cautious step backward and consider just what the hell is going on.
This past weekend, I
attended a honky tonk, a gun show, and an intensive crash course in
football in the span of 36 hours. I am still a bit dazed.
My apartment is roughly the size of a B-list celebrity’s walk-in
closet. Not even borderline washed up A-List. To be clear: If K-Fed has
a dog, and that dog has a closet, it is certainly larger than my
apartment. No, my place, I imagine, is more like the size of the
walk-in that Clay Aiken peers into every morning. (Clay Aiken has held
a special place in my heart ever since I first heard those breathlessly
stupid lyrics: “If I was invisible… I’d be the smartest man.” Maybe so,
Clay. Maybe so.) Suffice it to say, my apartment is small.
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