Morning Jog Through Plasticville

Coldest morning of the year: today, January 21, 2019. Not sure if the Old Farmer’s Almanac called this one. Kudos if it did. I’m out of the house, running over the hedges and through the back alleys of Plasticville. I ran so much that I transcended time and space. I found myself on the streets of Plasticville c.a.1957. I caught a glimpse of a well-dressed businessman as he left his solid, bi-level for the day. His bright red whip sat stunningly as it idled outside his garage. Man, this brother was decked out, head to toe, leather briefcase in hand. He had the remote start on the whip, his game was from the future. I doubled took on his style and he turned and squared up on me. I came to a stop. My Nikes cemented themselves to the ground, they were caught up also. He gave me the confident head nod. Not the nod that ends with the head down, but with the head up. For some reason, I was star struck. He had it, the American Dream. Grown confidence, not that he had the remote start but that he gave himself the opportunity to have the remote start.

Furthermore:

This is my Pop’s Plasticville. When he was a kid, the bi level house was his dream home. His vision for the future, his beginnings of the paper chase. I can imagine him as a 10 year old in 1959, slowly piecing together this model house and thinking to himself, “Damn, how can I stack my paper to get me one of these?” Plasticville, on the real though. Figure out how to punch that clock to make that dough.