It's coming up on a year since I left Texas in August of 2011. There were many things I enjoyed during my twenty-three years living there. The people were friendly, the small town atmospheres, big city events in Houston (International Festivals, Art Festivals, 4th of July celebrations, etc.). I loved driving down open roads with livestock grazing nearby fields, motorcycle riding, my friends and my little piece of heaven - the first house I ever owned. I fondly remember seeing the dark gray masses of clouds; fronts approaching from the north knowing the thunderstorm's passing would result in three days of cooler temperatures and feeling the thrill of those first gigantic drops of rain with the lightning flashes and thunder's roar.
Then again, there were many things I detested about the area as well. Those seemingly armored flying cockroaches, pesky ankle biting fire ants, mosquitoes, the oppressive weather from June to October that brought sweltering heat and humidity, weekly yard maintenance, hurricanes, Wal-Mart crowded with Bubbas and lastly, Big Ass Trucks.
Oh, there's something sexy about a Big Ass Truck done right. The mass of metal and machine glimmering in the mid day sun as it speeds over the melting asphalt. The pitch of the diesel engine, throaty and masculine and the huge knobby tires stir my loins as much as the sound of a Harley and the bad boy atop it tearing up the highway.
What brings out an ire about Big Ass Trucks (and not to forget those other behemoths, SUVs and [no longer] Mini-vans), is their size. Everything's bigger in Texas, right? It's expected there as much as it is to see cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans and NASA.
My heart grew a little happy on the return trip to southern California just because I imagined a state without Big Ass Trucks. I knew there would be the occasional old VW Van all decked out in surfer regalia, but those are teeny compared to the creatures I'm describing.
Imagine my chagrin when driving the last leg home of the fifteen hundred mile journey only to see these monsters on the San Diego freeway! There they were, in all lanes, all sizes and colors with roof racks, massive bumpers and California license plates. Instead of tatted up country boys there were being driven by tatted up surfer dudes!
Every time I park at the store, the movies or the mall, I take a stall on the outskirts. I'm sure this action will protect me from being sandwiched between two Big Ass Trucks and not being able to see when trying to back out. What's the definition of crazy? It is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results. Call me crazy because it never works. Even if I take the farthest slot out in BFP (Bum F*ck Parking) I can be assured upon my return to the car that there will be trucks dwarfing my sedan. The funniest occurrence happened one afternoon when I parked out in no-man's land, far and away from the general population. When returning I thought my car had been towed because I couldn't see it. Then, in my line of site was my red sedan hidden behind a MOTOR HOME! Yup, call me crazy....
