William F. Willard, KYS Correspondent here in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I am on site with the staff, contemplating a relocation to this yellow state. I haven’t had near enough to drink to come to terms with the day glow, “earthy” colors of the hotel room, and so far my battered editor, Erik Gamlem, has not had the decency to supply his staff with alcohol, coffee, kind women or anything else worthy of our journalistic talents. A shared 20oz Miller Light at Pappasito’s in the Dallas/Ft Worth Airport is all this rouged wordsmith has had to get him through the gruel.
My sinuses are dry and Gamlem expects 500 words already and nothing has happened. The elevators and automatic doors move slow, but every one drives fast, which considering the surroundings makes one wonder where they have to go. Albuquerque is divided by two interstates, going north and south, east and west and yet it offers only 800,000 people apparently and is a city that is fast asleep at 3:30PM on a Sunday, despite glorious temperatures of 70 degrees Fahrenheit.
We are watching Jackass reruns, the room is dark. Nothing is salvaged of our humanity. The wild west this is not, at least not yet, as we are not quite desperate, not quite pushed to our animalistic core. The edge is not far from us. It lingers off in a distance (whose visibility today is 70 miles plus. That’s like being able to see Richmond from Potomac Mills Mall off Interstate 95 south in Dixie), one that seems alien in the massive mountains that surrounds us. Here we find our constitution, or our destitution, which ever script has been written. We don’t know, were not much for reading.
This is William F. Willard for Korrupt Yrself Industries signing off.