sing the sprawl electric
National Golf says:
Just add water and dollars
Grow instant city
Where poetry oft meets the execrable, consider haiku. Take a form whose highest art is the fever calm distillation of a life, spilling the spirit and then the guts. Hand it to a NASCAR American and they think hmm, five seven five. And a colon to taste.
Callow sprawl artists, just as Kunstler has warned us, are running victory laps. Woohoo! They are shriekin’ hollerin’ and getting national press. Writing poetry, building subdivisions, railing against global warming. Did I compare thee to an algae bloom? An algae bloom never tries to justify its own existence like so:
Rising like the sun
Mall of Georgia at Mill Creek
Heralds a new dawn
ARGH! And the fun just doesn’t stop. The article linked at the top of this post is a paean to Dirt-e, an internet publication run by Dennis Billew of the Development Consultants Group, from wherein the following gabble emits:
On the 13-lane highway behind them, 18-wheelers whoosh by on their way to the Carolinas. They are the upbeat strains of a boomtown, and Billew, for one, is sick of people moaning that the end is near.
"The end will come when the population stops increasing," he said. "If people stop birthing babies and stop moving to the South."
Truer words were never spoken unintentionally. So I took the detour over to the triumphalist rag Dirt-e and beheld it in all of its glory. Whatever you do, don’t skip the flash animation. When the sky changed from muddy brown to suburban blue, I was agog. When the bulldozer finally took out the snake? Priceless. Biblical. I laughed so hard tears fell onto my cheerios.
Good life beckons all
To the Chattahoochee's shore
Selfish bar the door