This is my two-thousandth essay. Hard to believe. Way back in 2005, when I started this series, I wasn't entirely sure there'd be enough material to keep it up day after day after day.
I shouldn't have worried. When your material is the changing culture around you, there will always be something to comment about. Back then, a local morning radio DJ scoffed at the idea of a daily commentary featuring the foibles of our fine way of life. He is no longer employed by the medium, and America Ya Gotta Love It continues to grow like a fungus, offering flaccid insights and mildly bland humor.
Like this fungal observation: I was driving down the road yesterday and passed a guy selling mushrooms. "Fresh Picked" said one sign. "Morel" said another. A little concerning. The "Morel" part of the sign was obviously slapdashedly covering over some other name.
And it was a very old and broken-down dirty truck. A truck that looked like it would be hard to trace should something go wrong. It was parked in a pretty scrabbly weed-overgrown lot. The kind of lot that doesn't even have an address.
So---I'm all for entrepreneurship---but is this a good idea? Buy mushrooms from a fly-by-night road vendor? It's not like Rainier Cherries or Walla-Walla onions. Fresh-picked mushrooms require some degree of expertise in the picking part. Morels particularly have been confused with False Morels. Notice the fact that they even have a False Morel. It's a toxic mushroom known to cause diarrhea, nausea, and um, death.
Which gives you two problems when it comes to complaining about buying a bad product. You can't find the guy who sold it to you.
And you're dead.
Two very good reasons not to buy your fungi on the prowl.
America, ya gotta love it.