Tales from North Platte

Living in a small town requires a nihilistic, beast-like mindset. There is no change, no culture, and nothing we would recognize as decency. Nobody and nothing ever changes. Everyone you know will be the same at 35 as they were at 18. The only notable difference being 2--6 semi-legitimate children.
This becomes clear to me every time I return to North Platte. It became especially clear at my cousin's "bachlor party". It was at the worst dive in town. I was reduced to drinking Bud Light rather quickly, though only to avoid being awkward and only after I learned the the best beer on tap was Michillob. Mu relations regaled each other with the same drug stories that they had been telling since they started telling drug stories. My attempts to relate to them were utter failures. They didn't know who Sleater-Kinney were. They didn't know who Ween (c'mon, fucking WeeN) were. I lost miserably at pool since I was embracing the void too much to make any real effort. Pour more urine down my throat and tell me how you want a Jesse James custom bike again.
We ended up at a in-law/drug dealer's house. I had been there many times before and smoked out of some custom made bong or another there many times before. This time was the same. Dealer's kid is ten now, and more obviously insane than ever. The child was still awake at midnight with no sign of exhaustion. He's going to have a hard time adjusting to juvie hall hours.
the wedding was held in the courthouse. It was incidental. My mother cried as is her wont. I thought about telling her that whether the couple would be happy or not 20 years from now was a matter of pure chance, and the wedding was unlikely to matter as far as this goes. But it would have been rude to bring this up just then. People who have nothing else need tradition.