Charlton Heston is My President

While driving home from work earlier this week, I heard on the radio that the Conoco filling station on the corner of Main Street and I-35W in Burleson was selling unleaded gasoline for $2.11 per gallon.

"Hot damn!" I said (to no one in particular, since I was the only one in the car), "Let's go to Burleson and git us some cheap gas!"

Since I was at the corner of NW Highway and Central, I reckoned I'd just shoot on down Highway 67 South and meander towards Burleson (anyone unfamiliar with the layout of the Metroplex will just have to take me at my questionable word regarding the "proximity" of this Conoco station to my apartment). With any luck, I'd be there before that sucker was pumped dry...

I arrived at the Conoco to find myself at the losing end of a very long line of vehicles. Wow, I thought, everyone here is just as fiscally responsible as me (and it made perfect sense, considering the Republican, Bible-Belt leanings of this fine hamlet--if they don't buy lots of gasoline, then the terrorists have already won). So I had little reason to complain, as these small-town patriots were faithfully performing their civic duty, and honestly, what the hell else did they have to do on a Tuesday night in Burleson, Texas?

I decided to wait in this 278-car-long queue because, well, what did I really have to do that night?!? I had already driven the few extra miles and not only did I not want to leave empty-tanked, but also--though I sometimes overstate its urgency--my CD-alphabetization project could be pushed back a couple of hours without incurring any self-imposed late fees (and since I've been working on it for 5 weeks and am only up to "Coldplay," it was painfully clear that the Project wasn't going to be finished in one night anyway).

What struck me as unexpectedly refreshing about this gas station was the amazing diversity of the assembled crowd. Waiting in line for their inexpensive fuel were 2-door pickup trucks, 4-door pickups, king-cab pickups, long-bed pickups, and dually pickups (the huge, 6-wheeled kind that inspire uncontrollable self-loathing, male inadequacy, and downright shame in a native Texan man who drives a Honda Accord). So much variety... so little gas!!

The diverse fashion choices exercised by the townsfolk were equally as astounding. Had I been drugged and put to sleep when I left work, and awoke with no prior knowledge of where I was, I would have guessed that I was in Times Square in Manhattan, or maybe Union Square in San Francisco. I mean, who knew such trendy clotheshorses called Burleson home (and who knew they sought cheap gas like the rest of us)?? Such varied styles!! Such multifarious fashion palettes!! The scene was practically a United Nations of Walmart-issued NASCAR shirts. Every owner of every different breed of pickup truck had his own unique Tshirt designer (by "designer" I might mean "racecar driver"): Tony Stewart, Rusty Wallace, Joe Nemechek. Even Greg Biffle was emblazoned across the belly of one pregnant woman (whether or not she was barefoot was not determined, but the smart money would be on "YES").

And the denim choices favored by these customers were just as differing: tight Wranglers, extra-tight Wranglers, faded Wranglers, acid washed Wranglers, indigo Wranglers, and the top of the line extra-starched white Garth Brooks Special Edition Wranglers. Breathlessly in awe did I spend the next few minutes...

Such a mixed bag of sartorial splendor!! I felt utterly humbled, to be in the presence of such dandy diversity, while I cluelessly represented the frumpy Common Man in standard issue Kenneth Cole khakis, a mall-bought oxford shirt, and a Banana Republic handmade silk tie.

Why do "urbane" Dallas denizens look down their noses at this place? The Conoco in Burleson is obviously the new Milan.

And not only fashion is diverse in Burleson, but also their political sway is multifaceted. As evidenced by bumper stickers on their pickups, residents run the gamut in who they support at the polls: there's "George W Bush for President" ... then there's "W '04"... and the understated "W - The President" ... then the old-school "Bush-Cheney 2000" ... then the even more retro "Clinton Lied" ... and finally, in an apparent nod to Throwback Fashion, there was "Bush-Quayle 92". These were almost contrasted by the "Michael Moore Should Be Shot" and "Hunters For Bush" and the classic "...From My Cold, Dead Hands" (which may or may not have caused my to cowardly shrink down extra low into the leather seats of my four-door sedan).

This eye-opening experience at the service station has made me exponentially more self-aware. I have been forced to re-evaluate my position on the totem pole of Dallas society (i'm now a few levels lower, apparently). Thanks to the customers at Conoco in Burleson, I now feel guilty about being so closed-minded and "set in my ways" (and for consistently refusing to 'branch out' and eat Indian food). It's time for a change!

Alas, lost in all the soul-searching that I've done in past few days is the fact that I drove too many miles out of my way, waited in line for five hours, gorged on Funyuns and beef jerky, and impulse-bought a Dale Jarrett sweatshirt... all to save three damn dollars on a tank of gas.