Living On The Edge

Being flown across the state in a jet to give a powerpoint presentation makes you feel like the world's lamest rock star; and, like that dude from Nickelback, my extravagant treatment is undeserved and fleeting.

We walk from the tarmac to the waiting van and are driven to the hotel. Even with the windows up, it smells like Garden City. We check in and proceed to Las Margaritias, the highly recommended Mexican restaurant downtown.

Downtown GC is like most every downtown in Kansas, and feels like a bricked-up window. There's something else here, different than the surrounding city, which is low, flat, and humbling. There's something in the air here. It's Aerosmith.





Yes sir, no sir
Don't come close to my
Home sweet home
Can't catch no dose
Of my hot tail poon tang sweetheart
Sweathog ready to make a silk purse
From a J Paul Getty and his ear
With her face in her beer






"Home Sweet Home" is playing over every loudspeaker in downtown Garden City. It follows us as we cross the street, and fades as we walk down the steps into the restaurant. I stand on the third step from the bottom, the exact point where the scent of refried beans halves the smell of manure wafting through the entrance.

It's then when I discover that Las Margaritas does not have a liquor license.

(No joke is needed here, but just in case: I haven't been that disappointed since I stepped inside Cheeseburger in Paradise! *rimshot*)


[photo via artistwd.com]