Tofu hellcats, and other roadside sequiturs of the non
Gosh darn, I wish I had me some garlic nan right now. Actually, I’m sitting here on a Thursday night in my fave little neighborhood cafferia eating a salad and drinking some pussyass herb tea, because coffee after noon keeps me up late reading stuff like the NPCA Field Guide to Structural Pests when I should be snoozing. I keep wanting to go out to my fave Indian restaurant on Fulton Avenue, Kaveri Madras, for the big ol’ buffet they have on weekends, but I never get ’round to it. Still, some aloo samosas, a little bengan bharta, some saag paneer, biryani, pakoras and other veggie delicacies and basmati rice, topped off with a cool sweet lassi, and I’ll be one happy camphor tree.
Anyway, driving home and rolling through Galt every day, I keep seeing this weird little juxtaposition of billboards. The one on the left says something about some tofu dish; the one on the right is an ad for something on The CW network with “hellcats” in the title. So all I see is “Tofu Hellcats.” It’s right around my favorite trailer yard on the 99, between Pringle and Walnut Avenues. You know: D2 Trailer Sales.com.
I can’t tell you how groovy I think the whole D2 Trailer Sales.com operation is. I mean, it’s there every day when I go to work, and again when I’m rolling home. They have at least two big billboards up on 99, too, one on southbound past Arno Road, and the other on the wrong side of the road northbound near Peltier Road in Acampo. When I first saw the one at Arno Road, I got all jazzed, ’cause nobody opens a horse trailer business in 2010 and pushes their website on a billboard, except maybe these D2 people. I wonder if it’s two guys named Dave and Dan, or maybe it’s Doris Day, or a couple of self-deprecating guys from the former Yugoslavia who call themselves “dumb Dalmatians.” It’s got a certain oakball ring to it, too: “Dee tew traylur saylz daht cawm, may ah he’p yew?” I imagine somebody answering the phone. I kinda want to go blow a bunch of money on a horse trailer there just to help them stay in business, but if I get any spare gelt I’d better make amends and pay debts and maybe go to Ikea first.
I’m guessing a trip to that south Sacramento County city named after an Ayn Rand character may be on the dance card soon. I need to look around and find some weird crap and write about it. You know it’s there. I mean, Galt had a bowling alley somebody tried to turn into a “music hall” back in the day, which resulted in a venue where Hank Williams, Jr. played a few times. I know this, because I sold tickets to Bocephus’ grand tour of Galt back when I worked at Tower, and we got some real mutants coming in looking to buy those ducats — whiskey bent, hell bound, and all scribbled on a buttload of Elvis drugs, I mean, prescription medications, along with residual effects from a drive-thru diet that’s gone on for decades. My kind of people, in retrospect.
As for Ms. Rand, she was the original cougar, and I’m guessing what she might have to say about Galt would not be all that flattering. “What kind of objectivist nonsense is this?” Or perhaps she’d pen some kind of heinous crinkle-cut soliloquy like the one ‘ol Johnny “Fox News” Galt droned on for like 70 pages in Atlas Shrugged, and find some Morning Zoo Glenn Beck wannabe to animate it with voice to get the rubes all worked up about something other than what’s really vexing them. Rand might not be all that fired up about Galt’s suburb’n’western Dodge Ram aesthetic — “Aw, hayull, Lee-roy, goddamn Obama done sold Mopar t’them communist Eyetalians at Fiat, and now ah gotta trade in mah Power Wagon for a F-150? Shee-it” — but I’d bet she’d be pretty enamored with that leaking old nuclear power plant outside of town, and what its presence is doing to the locals on a sub-rosa basis.
Aw, hell. What do I know? All I do know is that a trip to Galt is in the cards. Soon, too. —Jackson Griffith