If you haven’t already seen this, read Iowahawk’s scoop on the latest way for blue-state adolescents to rebel: They’re going Dollywood in Palo Alto.
“I’m not sure where we went wrong,” says Ellen McCormack, nervously fondling the recycled paper cup holding her organic Kona soy latte. “It seems like only yesterday Rain was a carefree little boy at the Montessori school, playing non-competitive musical chairs with the other children and his care facilitators.”
“But now…” she pauses, staring out the window of her postmodern Palo Alto home. The words are hesitant, measured, bearing a tale of family heartbreak almost too painful for her to recount. “But now, Rain insists that I call him Bobby Ray.”
. . . She opens the door to a reveal a riot of George Jones CDs, reflective ‘mudflap mama’ stickers, empty foil packs of Red Man, and U.S. Marine recruiting posters. In the middle of the room: a makeshift table made from a utility cable spool, bearing a the remains of a gutted catfish.
“This used to be all Ikea,” she says, rocking on heels between heaved sobs. “It’s too late for us. Maybe it’s not to late for me to warn others.”
“Cracker” culture is spreading across blue America like trucker hats, the story warns.
“It was one day last spring,” says Ellen McCormack. “My life partner Carol and I were in the garage, working on a giant Donald Rumsfeld papier mache head for the Bay Area March Against the War, when Rain walked by. I thought he looked kind of strange, so I stopped him and looked closely into his eyes. Then I realized the truth — he was wearing a mullet. I was shocked, but he swore to me that it was only ironic.”
“After a few months, it was clear Rain had lied to us — that hideous Kentucky waterfall was completely earnest,” she adds, choking back sobs.
Her 18-year old son would soon exhibit other signs of disturbing changes.
“I was driving past a McDonalds one day last summer, and I thought I saw Rain’s bike outside. He had told me earlier that he was going to a friend’s house to stuff envelopes for the Dennis Kucinich campaign. I pulled a U-turn and headed back,” she recalls. “When I confronted him in the parking lot, he started giving me a lame story about how he was only there to protest globalization, but I could smell the french fries on his breath.”
It starts with french fries and pork rinds. It ends with bass fishing and stock car races.