Answer #61 - Yes. As long as my demographic includes Glenn Beck.

We have sallied forth and sallied back.  And now we're back and I am within my semi-usual frame of reference and I can't help but think of Glenn Beck.


But first - the back story - I'm nearing the end of the 31 hours of drive time from this weekend's short tour - a great romp through the Great Plains - to visit great friends and do some shows with Arbutus and Adventure Boy - and it's just Arbutus and I, down to the wire, as we've put Adventure Boy on a plane in Wichita, Kansas because he's got to get back to the studio to record SNC for Atlantic. (Straight No Chaser.  Google them..)

We are buzzing on espresso & lemon bars that Jane packed us in Madison and chocolate that La Shara packed us in Giltner - and cider that Valetta packed us in Moundridge... and we stop in McDonald's just outside of Terre Haute, for more caffeine, because we're desperate (and jonesing) and they have some sort of 'lattes' now - and I walk back to use the restroom, and there it is -

The lounge.  Like Starbucks.  McDonalds, along with its hoity-toit coffee line is now installing faux-leather arm chairs and coffee tables.

Not kidding.

Ah, but here's the rub:  faux-leather arm chairs are not accompanied by the NY Times and an array of college-educated, coffee-connoisseur-sanctioned Hear Music releases - but rather, with a large, flat-screened TV featuring - TA DA!  Glen Beck.  Glenn Beck.  (Oh, bugger that, I refuse to learn the accurate spelling of that jackass's name.)  Thing is - McDonald's had a damn Starbucksesque lounge and a flat-screen TV covered in the pasty mug of the new Rush Limbaugh.

I was fascinated... but.. he was... really... making sense... somehow... he was telling us that unless we keep the poor poor and the rich rich there'll be NO MIDDLE CLASS!

"WHAT!?"  I yelled at the McDonald's flat screen.  "NO MIDDLE CLASS!?  THE HELL YOU SAY!"

"Krista Detor," said Arbutus, as she sidled up behind me, McDonalatte in hand, "step away from the shiny object and make your way back to the vehicle.."
"Man.  I used to hate that guy... but.. he's really making sense!"
"Krista Detor," she stated flatly, "Glen Beck is comprised solely of tallow and goat shit.  Do not make me elaborate further."

"Yeah.. of course..", I realized.  Shocked at the implication. "I... I must be road-worn, I'm tired... what am I thinking? Wow!  Get me out of here!  Get me to a Starbucks!"

"Ah.. and there will you be safe in the bosom of your demographic?", she asked, non-plussed.
Yes.  Wait.  No. 
Er...

"Shut up and take me home," I say, as Terry Pratchett hits my ears and Terre Haute hits my eyes and the McDonalatte hits my veins... "No middle class..," I mutter, "..the hell you say..."