The redneck disease.

Yesterday, the LBAM had reason to visit his mother and the street he grew up on for the first time in a couple of months.

It may shock those of you who are accustomed to the polished, urbane wit of the LBAM to know that he comes from a place that first-time visitors have commented resembles nowhere so much as East Bumblefuck.

That being said, the actual neighborhood has always been fairly nice, not necessarily close knit, but friendly, populated by people of diverse background but united by a common concern; keeping their lawns neat and their boats clean.

Lately, though, there has been an incursion by rednecks who are renting a house at the end of the street. How, you may ask, dear reader, do I know they are rednecks?

Well, there's the rusting trampoline in the yard. The broken appliances heaped against the overflowing shed. The pile of tires.

But the worst part, the worst part is the truck. I did not notice make nor model, but I'm sure whichever it is, one of the profusion of stickers on the back windows no doubt heaped abuse upon the "rival" automaker, likely in the form of an unlicensed sticker pirating an image of Bill Watterson's Calvin peeing on something. It was painted (poorly - a DIY job, I have no doubt) an unappealing shade of green. It was lifted high off the ground on enormous, mud-encrusted tires. There were fake bullet hole stickers on the doors. Enormous white block letters proclaimed "Git-R-Done" on top of the windshield. Truck nuts? You bet.

The real winner was the tailgate, which was crowned with a "NUTS DEEP" in huge letters, flanked by amateurish air-brush paintings of Bud Light bottles and a Monster Energy can. Further stickers on the rear window I did not have time to study, but I have little doubt they proclaimed loyalty to Jesus and some NASCAR driver or other.

Through great force of will, I did not immediately set fire to it. In fact, through magnanimity of spirit and generosity of soul, I managed to move myself to pity for the person who owned this monument to advertising and poor taste. I can hear those of you out there claiming that this person should perhaps be admired; though you do not share his taste, you say, he is not afraid to proclaim that he is not just another anonymous driver!

To that, I say, amiably, nonsense. His (permit me the gendered pronoun; I have no doubts as to the sex of the owner of this vehicle) vehicle proclaims only that he is a devoted follower of things that are, in the main, wholly transparent. He has constructed an identity out of advertising slogans and catchphrases aimed at his demographic by TV executives who are sniggering with contempt as they run to cash the check. I would bet that he knows nothing of his religion except how he feels about it.

More and more, this is what annoys me; people who build their selfhood entirely out of what is given to them by popular culture. I see this endlessly with my students; I see it on various internet forums, where certain posters seem to go through month-long phases where their quote or picture or avatar is always related to a certain thing...a wrestler, a movie, a band, a character...and then switches they next time they see something new and totally awesome, which they then rush to identify with. This, it should be said, is not unrelated to the Hipster identity, which is an endless rush from one new thing to the next, only in this case the 'thing' must be something the rest of the world scoffs at, rather than embraces.

And this, really, is the crux of the matter, and what I don't want in my neighborhood; people who allow themselves to be dictated to, or indeed, created, by advertising and television. Let it be understood that I myself enjoy many of the things associated with traditional redneckery. I love banjo music, and at times have transported myself and camping equipment to distant locales so that I may listen to it for entire weekends. Friends and I have enjoyed many a hearty sip of homemade corn liquor, and blown many a breath of flame across a campfire with it. But these things are now authentic, pursued probably more faithfully by hipsters (at whom I am willing to aim my moonshine-fire breath) than rednecks.

The moral of the story; fuck rednecks. Meanwhile, I'll try to figure out something else to be angry at.