Gentleman callers, pile your cards no more 'pon the dusty mantle; dowager patronesses, ready your parlours for bridge; jaded jackanapes, lift your snuff-stuffed snouts to the fresh breeze blasting through our disentranced dusty pleasure domes: the Blonde is back in town.
With desert sand silting my boots, my brow brutishly freckle-bespattered and the bruises of Injun arrows embedded in my breast, I return, Lemuel-like, from hazarding the brave New World and all the people in't. No cultural imperialist I; the Blonde's mission has been one of unprejudiced anthropological observation, my aim to drink from the wells of native wisdom and sup from the simple sophistication of naive knowledge: in short, to Rip It Up, and Shake It Down.
My explorational epiphanies, unencompassable in a single post, will trickle through with palatable parsimony, but my overriding impression from the Grand Tour Out West was one of Carollian shrinking and swelling, a bizarre panorama of the massive and the miniature.
From the Grand Canyon to the minipots of milk on a BA Tray; from the 7'10" Phoenix Suns to the shrunken trailers dotted in the Nevada desert; from the great Percheron ranch horses of Sedona to the miniature world landmarks of Vegas; from reading about the dwarf protagonist in Carl-Johan Vallgren's The Horrific Sufferings of the Mind Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot: His Wonderful Love and His Terrible Hatred to listening to the epic ballads of Scott Walker; this was an Eat Me, Drink Me road trip through a shapeshifting America; a bleary-eyed Blonde Alice dancing with the blackjack Queens of Vegas and stalking the jackrabbits of blood red Thunder Mountain.
My, it's big, and it's hot.