On the Road to Irrelevancy

Tomorrow I head up to Minneapolis for a couple of days, and for whatever reason I'm actually afraid. It's not just the fear that Chris is going to smother me to death in Brokeback posters, although that is a very real fear (I have one V for Vendetta poster with me that I hope will defeat Chris with its message of true love). Nor is it just the fear that I'll get stuck next to an incredibly smelly hobo on the Greyhound, slowly grow attracted to his lifestyle through osmosis, and abandon all I have for the allure of poverty and abandoned lumber shacks. No, the fear is much more volatile than that.

I fear there will be a clash of cultures, and existence will shudder, if not shatter! Let me explain:

First, there is Chris and his elusive avant-lifestyle, where the only thing that makes sense is our misery. Whoops, no that was his emo-lifestyle, which was actually tangible. Now I don't even think he walks so much as intermittently floats from step to step on a tirade of art.
Cultural Parallel: The Golden Horde, minus Mongol genetics, plus nerd glasses

Second, there are the hordes of sports fans sure to storm the city for college basketball. I admit that this is largely the reason I am going to the city, so as to instill IVs into a Georgetown pep band that's been without me for a year. It's not that they miss me; it's just that I got them all addicted to heroin. Nevertheless, I'm not including myself in this group, seeing as how I won't actually be attending the game. 90 dollars for the cheapest seats to watch basketball in the Metrodome? I mean, I can see a baseball from way up there, but a basketball? Doubtful, unless Torii Hunter is somehow involved. (Ask Twins fans who that is, and then ask them if he has a twin. Ha!)
Cultural Parallel: The French during the revolutionary reign of Robespierre. Beware the sports-themed guillotines.

Third, there is me. A whole group just for me? Nope. Me and the spirit of Mark Twain, which will from time to time actually steal my body; thus the need for this separate group. To ward off the allure of the hobo, I will be intensely consuming Samuel Clemens's short works on the ride up. My brain will grow 2 sizes too big, only to shrink again when I glance at the time on my I LOVE BOOBS watch. (The hour hand is linear boob!)
Cultural Parallel: 19th century authors, not including Charles Dickens. I never know whether he prefers the nickname Choo-Choo Chaz or Slippery Dicky.

And so I fear these three cultures will clash. Observe the future, in play format:

(Curtain opens on Minneapolis. Harry deboards bus.)
Harry: My oh my. What a sight the mighty Mississip is; even here, near its home of humble beginnings. A man usually becomes weaker as he nears his house, knowing that even his strongest of wits will fail against the power of the wife; but this river, He knows no woman! He surges past her glaring eyes to...

(Sports fans run by. One stops in awe of Harry's stringing together of words longer than five letters, but shakes it off and starts painting Harry's face.)

Sports fan: YEAAAAHHHH! (You know, from Chapelle's Show).

(Chris appears out of his vortex. He ponders the scene, then begins cutting it apart with his mind, posting words and phrases here and there all over the image.)

(Space/Time fractures. All is lost.)

But the mighty Mississip rages on.

Rage, in all its serenity.