The natural order has been restored; there are now 200 miles between me and Dallas. It’s a relief to be back in sloppy old Austin. I do the Butt Dance for joy.
I’ll get the catty hair report of the way tout de suite: the honky women (I was in North Dallas, which contains no non-honkys of any kind, except the hired help) no longer have big hair. They all appear to have adopted the close-to-the-cranium helmet, which they accentuate with an emaciated, Prozackian expression of disdain for you and the horse you rode in on. Which is all to the good, I guess, if you live in a hellhole like that; who among us has not deployed the severe countenance as an urban defense mechanism? And one can hardly expect sunny dispositions to result from life in what is essentially one massive mutha of a Gap-infested strip mall.
But what of the shoes?
The sound made by North Dallas women as they tippity-tap along in short, vulnerable little stiletto steps is among the most depressing I have heard since W said whatever he said a hour ago.
There were more very high, very pointy shoes on those Dallas girls than there are Ford Super-Duty F-350s in all of Austin, or possibly the entire Hill Country. Not that high heels are entirely absent inside the Austin city limits, but they are mostly found shoring up the uber-femininity of the mistresses of the Republicans from Sugarland who infest the state lege, or on goth chicks. Down here one sports the flip-flop.
The spectacle of these Dallas women literally teetering on the precipice of despair was such an abrupt departure from the chill human landscape to which I am accustomed that I was moved to cast a fretful eye at the sky. Sure enough, dark clouds of patriarchy swirled ominously o’er the whole metroplex. Clearly these were effecting horrific affective disorders threatening to cleave asunder our Metroplexian sisters. For above the waist the Dallas woman says, “come near me and I will rip your face off,” but her idiotic shoes say “I adopt this crippling footwear as an homage to male fantasy and, in compliance with the will of patriarchy, to express my submission to the feminine construct and the possibility that I will blow you if you’re rich enough.”
High heels must go. A culture that can so brutally subjugate its citizens’ feet won’t say boo when its Supreme Court votes to enslave their uteruses.