A Tall Order

Each step I took seemed to make me bolder, more formidable; and then I squandered it all trying to think of something fine to say.
-Elle d'Chemme


A maiden post--and a modest one, at that--to fan the flames:

To those of our generation, what is the aesthetic effect of sitting in a strangely-attractive martini bar in Boise, Idaho--surrounded, naturally, by the tawny and sere Snake River Plain, with its subterranean channels, Sagebrush, lone telephone-wire raptors, irrigation gods; also the battlements of the Boise Mountains, their promise of black ravine and hard rock--alright, but still...there in the martini bar, in the city's bustling downtown streets, Rocky Mountain hipsters and lovebirds around, your own love there on the plush sofa, too, with a plate of yam fries and a pair of cocktails; what, goddamn it, is the effect of having, somehow, Jurassic Park suddenly boldly intrude on the above-bar television, so incongruous amidst the harsh glamor of the establishment (not to mention the city grid outside, then the physiographic province surrounding and enfolding)?

The year 1993 abruptly immortalized onscreen, and memories of Tyrannosaurus cut-outs in Blockbuster lobbies, big summer yards, grade-school recess shenanigans, etc. Beautifully, and justly, the bartender made no move to switch channels. Perhaps he, too, felt odd about the whole affair, and didn't want to tamper with something more powerful than himself.

This is not nostalgia, per say. Strictly social philosophy, urban planning, ecological elegy, cultural history. All science, of course. As always. As ever.