These days, when I drive my rusty old pickup into Moab for feed for the goats and other supplies, I never fail to be astounded at what an absolute hellhole this dear old town, once my beloved friend, has become. In all my ninety-two years, I have never seen the like. How could a bucolic paradise of orchards gardens and sleepy cottonwoods have become transformed into an absolute deafening nightmare of preening affluence, swarming multitudes on noisy machines, and loudly officious commerce posing as some kind of all-wise kindly benefactor? How could those patriarchs who palmed themselves off as our leaders all those many years ago have convinced us that we needed to turn our once-beautiful little town into a living hell so as to invite the outside world to visit our paradise?
I sprayed a stream of tobacco juice at the nearest travel poster on the fence as I loaded the final bag of oats into the Chevy.