We drove out here once. Twice, come to think of it, and it was like, 400 miles, door-to-door. 350, at least. It’s a long way, and frankly, not much in between.
Oil pumps are still pumping, and there seems to be a number of signs of “economic boom” going on, at least, locally. But it’s still, in its heart of hearts, a sleepy little town on the plains of West Texas.
Midland? Or Odessa? At the risk of seriously irritating the local population, it’s one of those scenes that the two towns are virtually interchangeable.
I get confused. I just refer to the area as MAF. It’s the airport code. Shorthand, and, as I recall, the code is derived from Midland Air Force, a not-so-secret installation, back in its day.
Overheard:
“Yes, I abhor violence unless I’m the perpetrator.”
“You can’t get drunk enough to say ‘I’ll go to Houston.'”
Inbound notices:
So that’s why business is slow? Prada opening in Valentine?
