Last weekend, some friends talked me into taking a ride into West Omaha to see what passes for progress there. I figure this was what started my decline into a week's worth of enforced bed rest. Village Pointe, a Bastion of Pure Materialist Indulgence sprung full-blown from a cornfield. The pricey emptiness, the faux gloss of durability glued onto steel buildings, and the name-brand clad masses of hayseeds squinting their eyes and imagining that they were in someplace actually un-hick, all conspired to make me ill.
O, to be a peasant and proud again.
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