Carpetblogger

Ask Carpetblogger: How Can I Tell If I am In Crapistan*?

Tough question! Crapistan is so often either a state of mind, or like, porn, the sort of thing you recognize when you see, it can be hard to know for sure. But since we consider this blog to be the ultimate guide to Crapistan, we thought we'd outline some of the questions you should ask if you find yourself thinking, "wow, am I in Crapistan?"

• Do passengers applaud after the plane lands?

 

• Do passengers jump out of their seats just after the plane touches down (before the applause, even), grab their bags from the bins and run toward the front? (There is an inverse relationship between the likelihood passengers do this and the importance of the activities those passengers are rushing off the plane to get started doing.)

 

• Are most bags on the carousel swathed in high-tension plastic wrap or held together with packing string? (Again, there is an inverse relationship between the amount of plastic wrap used and the value of the bags' contents.)

 

• Can you see any signs, advertisements or instructions written in Cyrillic, even though you are in a country that does not use the Cyrillic alphabet? (But! It is axiomatic that if you are in a country that uses Cyrillic, you are in Crapistan. Don't even try to argue otherwise because you are wrong.)

 

• Are you struck by the talent of local (Chinese!) designers in the medium of Bedazzling?

 

• Pointy shoes. On men (that's sort of a gimme -- if you can't recognize this, you probably aren't ready for Crapistan). Shiny suits, too.

 

• Do you see more than ten people carrying rainbow-colored "Rave Girl" plastic shopping bags?

 

• Is Nescafe marketed as a superior alternative to coffee?

 

• Can you buy beer in sidewalk kiosks? In the morning?

 

• Do you fear for your safety? Crapistan is not particularly violent. The biggest danger is becoming collateral damage in a bar fight over prostitutes.

 

• Is the Duty Free shop cash-only?

It should be pointed out that just because a place is undeveloped or hovering in the gray area between third and second world, it is Crapistan. India and Pakistan, to name two examples, are not Crapistan. Crapistan implies a certain level of development in infrastructure that, out of neglect, war, kleptocratic governance, oligarchic greed or other factors, has been allowed to decline precipitously (former British colonies don't necessarily count). Also, Crapistan suggests the emergence of a vulgar middle class that has more money than sense, and accordingly, has refined and retained its tchoutcka (rube-ish) habits. For example, Crapistaniacs (new word! Credit must be given!) can afford air travel, but don't understand the protocols or the importance of real luggage.

Essay question: Baku is the Capital of Crapistan: Yes or no? Show your work!

Carpetblog management is well-aware that this is not an exhaustive assessment. The Carpetblog demographic knows Crapistan better than any readership of any blog on the entire internets. We look forward to reading your input in the comments. Also, if you can't figure out if you are currently in Crapistan, you can ask and we'll conduct the assessment and provide you with a written analysis. For free, even.

*Can you tell we were recently in Crapistan?

A Night Out With Carpetblogger In Mingus, TX

We've noticed that Central Texas shares many characteristics of some of the more sophisticated areas of Pashtunistan. For example, both have substantial populations of heavily armed religious fanatics (Buckle Bunny* refuses to take us to Waco -- one in a string of outrages we've experienced lately). Also, getting a drink takes lots of effort.

As we might have mentioned in an earlier post, Eastland County is dry. Fortunately, as a habitue of Muslim countries, we already know how deal with this. For example, if you live in Islamabad, you load up at Duty Free and entertain quietly at home. If you live in Gorman, Texas, you go to Mingus.

(Here is Richard Thompson singing "Mingus Eyes" which is pretty awesome and may or may not be related to Mingus, Texas. A quick perusal of the lyrics does not rule it out!)

Mingus lies a few miles north of I-20 and has a population of 254 (buy your T-shirt here!). Its central business district is pretty much a county road lined with bars. And by bars, we mean "pressboard shacks with some Budweiser posters on the walls, a dartboard and, maybe, karaoke."

Options are many! You have your Boar's Nest, your City Lights, your R-Bar, your White House, your Mule Lip and your Sugar Bush. There may be others. We don't know. It was dark. 

The primary difference between these bars and ones you might find in Pashtunistan, if they had bars there, is that people get extremely drunk on Coors Light and rather belligerent on Friday night. We had been under the mistaken impression that the extremely drunk belligerents we saw at the Boars Nest were also armed, making us feel this was the most menacing bar in which we had ever had the pleasure of drinking Coors Light. We feel a lot better now knowing that it is illegal to bring your gun into bars.

Sadly, though, many Mingus visitors avoid the Mule Lip because some guy shot someone there last year. The newspaper story is linked here and, if you have not yet been convinced about the utility of social media, please spend a few minutes reading the comments. 

Before you head to Mingus, know that its bars can only serve beer and whatever is the new century's version of Zima. That means you stop at the liquor store and buy your own bottle before you choose your bar. May we suggest Cheryl's? The night we stopped in, Cheryl's was helmed by two 80 year-old women in matching red sweatshirts who looked like twins. They were struggling a bit with their cash register that night. We have no doubt they, too, were heavily armed.

*Buckle Bunny is the Carpetblog contributor formerly known as Red State Sibling.

Where's that Secession Petition? We Want to Sign It

We have been under the mistaken impression that Turks had cornered the market on mindless, testosterone driven nationalism (MTDN). That was before we had been to Texas! We always had a vague sense that this was the dominant characteristic of Texans, but saw it as something we never needed to concern ourselves with since we had, until now, made it a policy to never go to Texas.

There are countless unattractive ways in which MTDN manifests itself, too many for one blog post. So let's focus on music.

Saying they have both kinds of music, country and western, here is a bit generous. From our observation, the only music allowed on the radio is country and/or western music in which Texas figures prominently in the lyrics. There must be a Ministry for Making Sure Texas Comes Up At Least Once In Every Song. Can you think of another state in which this is the case? Minnesota? Oregon? Probably not.

Extra credit must be awarded to lyricists who praise women who share characteristics with Texas, such as "her teeth are white like west Texas cotton fields." Even so, we have not yet heard "she smells like Port Arthur" or "her personality reminds me of Lubbock" or "she's dry like Eastland County."

Curious readers might ask, "what, if any, role does Jesus play in this culture's music?" Astute question! When Jesus comes back --  if you believe the Zionist Christian talk shows out of Abilene, look for him sometime next week -- he is probably going to stop first in Mingus and have a beer before switching to whiskey around midnight.

Occasional references to Merica are encouraged, as are colorful shorthand references (red, white and blue, duh). Despite these, you can listen to the radio all day and get the distinct sense that Texas is its own planet, with its own physical and psychological geography, rotating on its own axis and orbiting a different sun that the rest of us see. This explains a lot. It also should come as a surprise to precisely no one.

As the clever Peter Feld points out regarding Texan Secession: "Subtract 38 red electoral votes (post-redistricting), two Senators and net 10+ House seats? Hell yeah!"

Where do we sign?

Full Information Not Given

So bleak were our recent options, that when Red State Sibling suggested we come take care of her Gorman, Texas ranch while she and the Cowboy left town, we didn't LOL at the idea. "The only thing you have to do is remember to close the gates," she lied.

Sensing our hesitation, she threw in a few appealing inducements. We booked a ticket according us a three-week visit to Central Texas, the longest period of consecutive time we have spent in the US in six years. Some people go to Bali post-divorce, others go to Gorman. We hate to be a cliche.

After a quick look at Accuweather, we asked, "Can I borrow coats and boots and gloves so I don't have to carry them?"

"What will you need those for!" she asked, as if we're some sort of clueless retard with no internet.  "It's 65 degrees here! It's Texas!"

She made plans for us to ride her cutting horses and plant her acre-large organic garden. We packed hat and gloves and a coat.

Gorman greeted us with rain and mud. Rain that turned to sleet. That turned to snow. That turned to ice.

Full information not given.

Putting Carpetblogger in charge of a 100 acre rural ranch for a week is not as absurd as sounds. Our veneer of urban sophistication may suggest otherwise, but we are not without rural skills. Horses, dogs, cats, sheep and chickens are easy. Tractors are within our skill set. So are 4WD pick-ups.

Cattle are a bit foreign, a little scary, but we can deal. Hundred year old houses with a dozen guns (there are three within sight of this couch) but no locks on the doors and no landlines are disconcerting. And, can there really be parts of America where there is little or no mobile phone coverage? As it turns out, YES! This is one of them. Terrifying.

Full information not given.

About those gates. The mobius strip they've created of doors and gates that only lock from one side virtually guarantees, should we follow the instructions "remember to close the gates" diligently, we will be locked out of somewhere critical, or locked in somewhere with no mobile phone. Alternatively, we will develop OCD. "Did I lock that gate? Shut that door?" and trudge back and forth to the barn all night long in sleet and mud, doublechecking.

Full information not given.

Did we mention Eastland County is dry?

Full information not given.

Our biggest fears are these: Things will get stuck (tractors, vehicles, calves. O! Did we forget to mention it's calving season? Sometimes they get stuck and have to be pulled out. Full information not given) or things will get cold (primarily, me).

Stay tuned.

Well That Didn't Take, Did It?*

EXT: Eastland, Texas, off Interstate 20, 120 miles (200 kms) west of Dallas, 50 miles (80 kms) east of Abilene. Close enough to get the Abilene TV stations. That's excellent news for those who want to catch up on daytime Zionist Christian talk shows.

Courthouse Square: All Texas towns have one. If one needs a notary and Google offers nothing useful in response to "notaries eastland texas," it seems like a logical place to start looking. Since nearly all the store fronts on Main Street are vacant, choices are limited.

I-20 Bail Bonds and Pawn Shop. Gun shop too, but why waste space and paint pointing out the obvious?

INT: Conversation among three good ol' boys halts when white girl, wearing very un-rural black wool coat covered in hay and loafers, but driving a dirty white pick-up with three dogs in back, parks and walks in.

"Y'alls notarize things here?" [End of vernacular. Readers sigh with relief]

"Depends. Whatcha got?" asks large bearded man with tattoos standing behind counter, next to gun rack.

[First unanswered question: What don't they notarize?]

"I got a divorce here." She hands him an envelope.

"Come back to the office and sit down. I'll have a look."

White girl sits down in cluttered office. Large bearded man with tattoos thumbs through the thin pile of documents. Avoiding his occasional glances, white girl examines photos of local basketball star, most certainly large bearded man's daughter.  To unasked questions she thinks up fictional answers more believable than the dry truth laid out in the document. Istanbul, Turkey. Irreconcilable differences between the parties have resulted in the irremediable breakdown of the marriage, Portland, Oregon. Eastland, Texas. It doesn't make much sense to her, either.

White girl signs. Large bearded mans stamps with the authority of a Soviet apparatchik.

"What do I owe you for this?"

"Nothing. Good luck."

"Wow. Thanks."

Good ol' boys watch the white girl in silence as she exits the pawn shop. She gets back in the dirty white pick-up, drives dogs back to the ranch in Gorman and feeds the cattle under light snow flurries. Then, she redesigns a blog. As you do.

*Yah, I know. If you read with RSS there's no noticeable difference. But it's a brand! We don't feel like starting all over again! And, although this Central Texas posting is temporary, it's a vein too rich not to mine. There will be more, at least for the next ten days or so.