By Chris Webb/editor-in-chief
Every town has its own distinct flavor.
The people, schools, architecture and festivities establish a unique feel that makes it unlike just any old town.
The flavor of the town I have called home for the past 14 years has gone sour and left a bitter aftertaste reminiscent of burning plastic.
When I first moved to Southlake, the town consisted of the church, the school, an Albertsons and, of course, a Wal-Mart.
Unless you had a farm or ranch, it was a transit town—a stopping place with a good school system that attracted attention from families with a need to be close to an airport and away from the city smog.
Coming from California, my father was ripe with jokes about how we were stuck in the boonies and we had left the industrialized world behind. Little did he know how quickly that would change.
Of course, the change was more than welcome when construction plans began all over town.
When the City Council approved the now massive town square, I was ecstatic and thought of how fantastic this was.
I didn’t realize the shopping center had a destiny as a daycare for Southlakian parents late for their latest Botox injections.
Anyone leaving town when I arrived certainly couldn’t recognize it anymore.
The Wal-Mart was torn down supposedly because it didn’t aesthetically mesh with the rest of the town.
The local church was overshadowed by a megachurch.
The town’s main road was repaved and widened for increased traffic.
The schools have multiplied.
Some of the restaurants have added French subtitles.
And a $15 million football stadium replaced the need for academic performance, and, by the way, it will have a sushi bar installed soon.
It’s not the money or the new air reeking of snobbish elitism blowing around town. It’s not even the fact that I no longer know the name of any of my neighbors. It’s the total loss of perception.
Southlake has become a self-perpetuating machine encapsulated by a bubble blocking out reality.
I wish I had a pin.