What is happening to the roadsides of America? I mean, I don't mind a little white cross to mark the spot where a loved one zigged when they should have zagged, but it's not just little white crosses anymore. Now it seems like every other telephone pole and tree trunk on some of the more enjoyable back roads is festooned with enough plastic flowers, ribbons, and shiny bits to make it look like a Filipino jitney bus has crashed into a roadside shrine to Our Lady Of Guadalupe, Patron Saint of Chupacabra Victims. Driving down some stretches is like motoring through Graceland on the anniversary of Elvis' demise, except tackier.
Maybe my twinging is caused by the fact that my personal aesthetic is Nordic-severe strained through the uptight cheesecloth of Midwestern Lutheran. I mean, I don't even like pinstripes on cars, and I'm actually physically allergic to glitter. Maybe it shouldn't bother me that it looks like a gang of itinerant Santeria cultists have been making sacrifices to the god of telegraph poles all over the highways and byways of this fair land. But it does.