8.30.2011
lemonade stand aka i have officially no heart
one of my personal rules in life is to ALWAYS stop at kids' lemonade stands, and to exponentially overpay for my glass of often powder-made lemonade.
but today i officially have no heart. two kids walked into the coffee shop sporting plastic-beaded bracelets for sale to support their block party and i balked. fumble.
not only that but i talked to the kid - he wanted a cotton candy machine and a moonbounce - and then, because i didn't have change for a tenner, i did NOT buy his bracelets.
once i realized what a jerk i was i checked to see if they were still in screaming distance...but my god, the fact that they were out of sight already speaks to the amount of time that i pushed being a total shithead out of my mind.
never let that happen again!
this number is unreachable
sometimes i wish this log was private. and sometimes i wish it was easier for me to tell people what's really going on in my life.
i realize trust is a big issue. i'm not sure where that came from.
the only time i've ever really been in love i got really, tremendously, inexpressibly crushed. but i'm not really sure why. he never told me that he was in it for the long haul. i just ignored that, cause if i've learned two things in my life it's that 1) people almost never tell the truth about themselves, even when they're trying to, and 2) men prefer to believe they're not in love and that it matters to them.
like, matters to their day to day survival. which seems so insane to me. what else is there?
it's been a long time since him. i almost fell for someone else, but it was so clear from the beginning that it wasn't going anywhere that i just refused to go there. (see point 1 above)
like three weeks ago some punk ass young kid stopped me on the street and - through some magical combination of being stunningly gorgeous, persistent and clever - talked me into giving him my number. i have never done that before. but then, even when i have given men i actually know my number, they never call. it's like a 100% reliable way of getting someone to f_ck off. i totally wrote him off.
almost two weeks later i get a call from some number. no message.
two hours later i get another call. same number. no message. who the f_ck is this, i think?
i text back: who is this? why don't you leave a message?
i get a text back: it's Punk Ass Young Kid. kinda bad about leaving messages. lol.
i text back: how else am i sposed to know it's you?
he texts back: i'm at a bbq down the street, you should come. i'll be at your door in a minute.
props to him for being bold. i went. sparks flew. we actually got into a fight that night (he's a macho, self-denying chauvinist...just like i like it, evidently.) i wrote him off again.
he called the next day. i didn't pick up.
he called the day after. i didn't pick up...but i texted back: you rang?
he called again. i picked up: hey. him: i'm at your corner. open your door. me: (who the f_ck does he think he is?!) ok.
i let him in. i can't explain it. he acted in every way that i find to be sophomoric and sexist...yet somehow charming.
i read an article that says women who sleep with pick-up artists hate themselves. am i one of those? i sure like myself a lot for someone who hates herself. (see point 1 above)
we didn't sleep together. i was just wondering.
after two days in my house he left. he said he was coming back in a little bit - we were going for a walk. he didn't. he called and said he'd be later. i went for a walk by myself.
i woke up the next morning alone. he never called. he never came back.
he left his phone charger at my house. i left it on my stoop for him to pick up. he hasn't.
now when i call him it says: this number is unreachable
i realize trust is a big issue. i'm not sure where that came from.
the only time i've ever really been in love i got really, tremendously, inexpressibly crushed. but i'm not really sure why. he never told me that he was in it for the long haul. i just ignored that, cause if i've learned two things in my life it's that 1) people almost never tell the truth about themselves, even when they're trying to, and 2) men prefer to believe they're not in love and that it matters to them.
like, matters to their day to day survival. which seems so insane to me. what else is there?
it's been a long time since him. i almost fell for someone else, but it was so clear from the beginning that it wasn't going anywhere that i just refused to go there. (see point 1 above)
like three weeks ago some punk ass young kid stopped me on the street and - through some magical combination of being stunningly gorgeous, persistent and clever - talked me into giving him my number. i have never done that before. but then, even when i have given men i actually know my number, they never call. it's like a 100% reliable way of getting someone to f_ck off. i totally wrote him off.
almost two weeks later i get a call from some number. no message.
two hours later i get another call. same number. no message. who the f_ck is this, i think?
i text back: who is this? why don't you leave a message?
i get a text back: it's Punk Ass Young Kid. kinda bad about leaving messages. lol.
i text back: how else am i sposed to know it's you?
he texts back: i'm at a bbq down the street, you should come. i'll be at your door in a minute.
props to him for being bold. i went. sparks flew. we actually got into a fight that night (he's a macho, self-denying chauvinist...just like i like it, evidently.) i wrote him off again.
he called the next day. i didn't pick up.
he called the day after. i didn't pick up...but i texted back: you rang?
he called again. i picked up: hey. him: i'm at your corner. open your door. me: (who the f_ck does he think he is?!) ok.
i let him in. i can't explain it. he acted in every way that i find to be sophomoric and sexist...yet somehow charming.
i read an article that says women who sleep with pick-up artists hate themselves. am i one of those? i sure like myself a lot for someone who hates herself. (see point 1 above)
we didn't sleep together. i was just wondering.
after two days in my house he left. he said he was coming back in a little bit - we were going for a walk. he didn't. he called and said he'd be later. i went for a walk by myself.
i woke up the next morning alone. he never called. he never came back.
he left his phone charger at my house. i left it on my stoop for him to pick up. he hasn't.
now when i call him it says: this number is unreachable
8.23.2011
Red cyanobacteria
oxygen-producing micro-organisms that are the progenitors of land plants and responsible for nearly one half of the Earth's current primary productivity
8.22.2011
Yoga Day 1
I've committed to doing 365 days of yoga, starting today.
My goals are:
1. spend some time at different studios
2. try all kinds of yoga
3. find the best teacher training program
4. practice, practice, practice
I'll report back.
My goals are:
1. spend some time at different studios
2. try all kinds of yoga
3. find the best teacher training program
4. practice, practice, practice
I'll report back.
8.21.2011
8.19.2011
Robot Dream
When the robots came, we did not know they were robots.
I was culled years later, when the myths of their rule on my planet had already overtaken fact. I was 19 and clever, but confident I was going to die.
I was brought into the city in the hold of a transport ship. Through the bars I could see their migration, or formation for war. We didn't know. There were massive, golemlike Stalkers - high as skyscrapers - remote controlled and used to pick the urban landscapes clean of hiders. These guarded the Cullships, floating barges for bodies. The robots made no distinction between dead and alive until you didn't follow orders. They didn't understand disease. The Cullships reeked.
The human-sized robots were skinned, with hair and clothes, but their thin-lipped mouths did not move to talk or eat. Their eyes were replaced by a strip of smoky glass - a screen embedded in an expressionless face. Their hands fell lifeless at their sides - they gave orders telepathically. No force necessary. If you refused, your body simply stopped working and you fell to the ground. Dead or asleep, the ones who watched never wanted to know.
I was lucky because I was pretty. I had three silly boyfriends back in my bumfuck town and, it seemed, the robots had a taste for beauty, too.
Off the Cullship, they shuffled us underground and through corridors. I was ordered into a room crammed with people. It looked like it had been a worker's dorm - a small bed, a tiny closet, a set of drawers with people sleeping everywhere, huddled together and probably wishing they would wake up from this robot dream.
I was given orders to be ready in my suit in an hour, so I didn't sleep. Being late was reason enough to be frozen, and my whole mind was occupied by staying alive.
In less than an hour, I stood by the door in my suit - a dark blue sack that was one size doesn't exactly fit all. I remember thinking how funny it was that my vanity was a bit injured by being forced to look ugly.
More crowds, lines, corridors, and I was thrown in with two other girls about my age. We didn't talk.
Halted for a second in front of a glass wall, streams of blue suits on the other side plodded in the opposite direction. An old man, in a fuzzy gray sweater, backpack and glasses stopped and stared. He was so bold and without fear that I should have guessed he was with them, but at the time I thought it was endearing in a cute, lecherous kind of way. He looked at me, and then the girl to my left and to my right, and back at me. Then he looked at the warden and mouthed some words to her through the glass. He scanned the three of us again and then walked off.
The warden pulled us out of line and ordered us into a small side room with a huge bath tub, told us to wash up and to be ready in six hours. Sleep! I was ecstatic. After a quick discussion with Sophie and Jamilla, we agreed to bathe and sleep in shifts. When my skin hit the water, I felt my whole body sigh with relief. I hadn't been warm in days and I could not have imagined being lucky enough to be clean, too. I figured I'd already be dead.
When the warden came back, she was alone. She lead us into a much fancier area of the complex. The corridors were marble and carved or mirrored glass rather than concrete, and we began to see brightly lit signs and doorways, like a city shopping center. Through a curving, glass enclosed staircase we went down - passing a sign in vibrant red light that said "Men of a certain age."
When we came to the bottom, we were in some kind of store, with no sales clerks or other shoppers. The warden ordered us to "shop and have fun." We looked at each other, questioning it, for a moment. Was this some kind of trick? Or was this robot empire a paradise instead of the nightmare?
Sophie was the first to crack - she squealed with a giddy, silly abandon and ran into the racks of clothes. What else was there to do? Better to shriek and enjoy it now than think about the horrors that awaited. We had no choice, and no control anyway.
We tried on clothes for what seemed like hours, flattering each other mercilessly and running around like headless chickens. The warden stood by the stairs, watching or not watching. Who could tell?
Sophie was the first to find the lingerie. She came dancing out in some frilly white thing and pranced around, doing a childish impression of a sexy strip show. Jamilla, jealous, ran into the rack and found her own vampy gear. I watched as the warden turned her head almost imperceptibly to follow them, her eye screen seemingly focused on the scantily clad girls. I thought it best to follow suit.
It took a long time for me to find what I was looking for, and when I came out - dominatrix diva all the way to the whip - I saw the old, sweatered man stop at the top of the last step. I watched his hungry eyes sweep over the girls and lock on me. His eyes moved over every curve, saliva gathering in the creases of his softly muttering mouth. When his gaze finally met mine, I could see anger and excitement in his expression. Could almost read as, "this one will be the most fun to tame," telegraphed across his mind. I smiled wide, opening my lips just so and dropping my eyes. Playing the docile, dirty girl always did it for the old men in town, why not this one?
When I raised my eyes again, he was gone. The warden ordered us up the stairs. Sophie stopped, "what about our clothes? I don't want to walk around in this!" The warden's face didn't flinch. And, still across the room, I could see Jamilla touch Sophie's arm softly and whisper something. But Sophie was unhinged and she understood what was coming, but her mouth just wouldn't shut. Under her breath the words flowed, but the fear forced the volume up and out, and before we could make her stop, she was screaming "...can't make me! I will never, never, never go with that old man! You can't make..."
She went rigid and dropped to the floor like a board. In what felt like three strides I was at Jamilla's side, hands on her shoulders, pushing her towards the stairs. The whole time whispering "Jamilla, do not scream. Do not refuse. Keep walking and everything will be ok."
I was culled years later, when the myths of their rule on my planet had already overtaken fact. I was 19 and clever, but confident I was going to die.
I was brought into the city in the hold of a transport ship. Through the bars I could see their migration, or formation for war. We didn't know. There were massive, golemlike Stalkers - high as skyscrapers - remote controlled and used to pick the urban landscapes clean of hiders. These guarded the Cullships, floating barges for bodies. The robots made no distinction between dead and alive until you didn't follow orders. They didn't understand disease. The Cullships reeked.
The human-sized robots were skinned, with hair and clothes, but their thin-lipped mouths did not move to talk or eat. Their eyes were replaced by a strip of smoky glass - a screen embedded in an expressionless face. Their hands fell lifeless at their sides - they gave orders telepathically. No force necessary. If you refused, your body simply stopped working and you fell to the ground. Dead or asleep, the ones who watched never wanted to know.
I was lucky because I was pretty. I had three silly boyfriends back in my bumfuck town and, it seemed, the robots had a taste for beauty, too.
Off the Cullship, they shuffled us underground and through corridors. I was ordered into a room crammed with people. It looked like it had been a worker's dorm - a small bed, a tiny closet, a set of drawers with people sleeping everywhere, huddled together and probably wishing they would wake up from this robot dream.
I was given orders to be ready in my suit in an hour, so I didn't sleep. Being late was reason enough to be frozen, and my whole mind was occupied by staying alive.
In less than an hour, I stood by the door in my suit - a dark blue sack that was one size doesn't exactly fit all. I remember thinking how funny it was that my vanity was a bit injured by being forced to look ugly.
More crowds, lines, corridors, and I was thrown in with two other girls about my age. We didn't talk.
Halted for a second in front of a glass wall, streams of blue suits on the other side plodded in the opposite direction. An old man, in a fuzzy gray sweater, backpack and glasses stopped and stared. He was so bold and without fear that I should have guessed he was with them, but at the time I thought it was endearing in a cute, lecherous kind of way. He looked at me, and then the girl to my left and to my right, and back at me. Then he looked at the warden and mouthed some words to her through the glass. He scanned the three of us again and then walked off.
The warden pulled us out of line and ordered us into a small side room with a huge bath tub, told us to wash up and to be ready in six hours. Sleep! I was ecstatic. After a quick discussion with Sophie and Jamilla, we agreed to bathe and sleep in shifts. When my skin hit the water, I felt my whole body sigh with relief. I hadn't been warm in days and I could not have imagined being lucky enough to be clean, too. I figured I'd already be dead.
When the warden came back, she was alone. She lead us into a much fancier area of the complex. The corridors were marble and carved or mirrored glass rather than concrete, and we began to see brightly lit signs and doorways, like a city shopping center. Through a curving, glass enclosed staircase we went down - passing a sign in vibrant red light that said "Men of a certain age."
When we came to the bottom, we were in some kind of store, with no sales clerks or other shoppers. The warden ordered us to "shop and have fun." We looked at each other, questioning it, for a moment. Was this some kind of trick? Or was this robot empire a paradise instead of the nightmare?
Sophie was the first to crack - she squealed with a giddy, silly abandon and ran into the racks of clothes. What else was there to do? Better to shriek and enjoy it now than think about the horrors that awaited. We had no choice, and no control anyway.
We tried on clothes for what seemed like hours, flattering each other mercilessly and running around like headless chickens. The warden stood by the stairs, watching or not watching. Who could tell?
Sophie was the first to find the lingerie. She came dancing out in some frilly white thing and pranced around, doing a childish impression of a sexy strip show. Jamilla, jealous, ran into the rack and found her own vampy gear. I watched as the warden turned her head almost imperceptibly to follow them, her eye screen seemingly focused on the scantily clad girls. I thought it best to follow suit.
It took a long time for me to find what I was looking for, and when I came out - dominatrix diva all the way to the whip - I saw the old, sweatered man stop at the top of the last step. I watched his hungry eyes sweep over the girls and lock on me. His eyes moved over every curve, saliva gathering in the creases of his softly muttering mouth. When his gaze finally met mine, I could see anger and excitement in his expression. Could almost read as, "this one will be the most fun to tame," telegraphed across his mind. I smiled wide, opening my lips just so and dropping my eyes. Playing the docile, dirty girl always did it for the old men in town, why not this one?
When I raised my eyes again, he was gone. The warden ordered us up the stairs. Sophie stopped, "what about our clothes? I don't want to walk around in this!" The warden's face didn't flinch. And, still across the room, I could see Jamilla touch Sophie's arm softly and whisper something. But Sophie was unhinged and she understood what was coming, but her mouth just wouldn't shut. Under her breath the words flowed, but the fear forced the volume up and out, and before we could make her stop, she was screaming "...can't make me! I will never, never, never go with that old man! You can't make..."
She went rigid and dropped to the floor like a board. In what felt like three strides I was at Jamilla's side, hands on her shoulders, pushing her towards the stairs. The whole time whispering "Jamilla, do not scream. Do not refuse. Keep walking and everything will be ok."
8.12.2011
Happy Faking Birthday!
Today is really my cousin's birthday. I went on fb and congratulated him.
At the same time, I noticed that it was also the birthday of a "friend" of mine.
(I say "friend" because we don't really know each other that well, and because our only association in the past was really professional. In real life, we are acquaintances...in fb terms, everyone is your "friend.")
Though I wasn't really confident that I wanted to sat anything at all, it's been a while since this "friend" and I have been in touch, so I thought: hey, may as well say happy birthday and take a step towards reconnecting after a while.
I went to his page and wrote the following message: "happy birthday. you're looking quite dignified these days. also, you have the same birthday as my cousin S____, which automatically makes you one of the raddest people in the world."
I scrolled down a bit and noticed something rather odd. Most of the other "happy birthday" posts from his other connections were in a somewhat or entirely skeptical tone. And I thought to myself: You know, I thought R_____'s birthday was in the winter. Didn't I get an invite to a party or something?
And then I read one of his comments: Seems like I just had a birthday a few months ago. I will try to have another soon! Thank you for all the good wishes, it's really a joy to see them all. It's like the opposite of being at your own funeral! #internuts
And I realized that, of course, it was not really his birthday.
And I get the joke, from his point of view. fb is, of course, an indirect means of establishing and/or maintaining relationships. You don't really know all the people you're connected with, but our sense of politeness or internet connectedness has us doing things like wish each other happy birthdays or congratulations for life events that we are totally disconnected from. And I see your point. Touche.
BUT, from the perspective of the responder, the non "friend," all I can really think is: What a dick!
Congratulations. You've fooled people who don't know you, but do care for you in some way - even though it may be impersonal and indirect - into conveying good wishes. And then the joke is on us.
I would argue, though, that the joke is really on you, sir. YOU are the one who established and/or agreed to these connections. And if they are superficial, that is because YOU want them to be. And when these people take the time to sincerely convey their positive feelings towards you, you turn it into a joke on them. You've managed to reflect negativity and alienation when others are offering you positivity and connection.
So, to the inanity of conventions in virtual networks, I agree with your joke and offer you a sincere "ha!"
But to you, sir, I respectfully say: I will never consider us "friends" or friends from this point forward. Thanks for illustrating that truth so pointedly.
8.09.2011
Two boys in a coffee shop
two boys, barely earned their scruffy unshaven faces, sit back at the coffee shop and impress each other with wisdom.
like:
do you think our minds really adjust to inflation?
you mean, that the value of money decreases every year?
yeah.
and then:
the worst thing about that is even if you put your money in some bank and leave it there, you lose money.
unless you get a good interest rate, and there are no good interest rates anymore.
oh, the weight of the world. how do we bear it?
but really, how do we?
does knowing the troubles of the world help us to solve its' problems? or even our own?
it's hard for me to believe it matters at all. perhaps it's narcissism or nihilism, but the way we muddle through seems so irrelevant. injustice continues in some form - whether we stifle in the rigidity of tribal isolation, or stumble through the self-seeking, self-service of contemporary western individualism. and though we rarely see past ourselves - here in 21st century america, at least - our individual destinies do not matter to the world.
the only thing that matters is that two of us survive to reproduce, to continue our species to the next cataclysm in evolution. and we can't see our way towards that point, or through it.
even if we were able to comprehend long term planning, or collective action, or common goods, the next super volcano or climate rocking comet or plague will kill us off at biologically precedented rates.
this is not to say that what we do until then - individually and collectively - is and should be out of our hands.
the opposite is true, in fact.
if we can't see past our survival, why don't we live like today is our last day on this earth? but not a wasted day. the one day we have to define ourselves. not to fuck and eat and cheat each other with animal abandon, but to transcend our animal bonds and become human. one day to love and respect and protect and relish the paradise in which we exist. profit means nothing here. hierarchy is ridiculous. inequality inane.
relieve these boys of the burden of philosophy and let them, let us all LIVE. today is the only day.
maybe i'm feeling sentimental cause i'm out of a job, for now. or maybe it's hot out and i'm feeling heated and moody. or maybe riots and fires in london seem like the only rational behavior. order is overrated, but i'm no anarchist.
listening to those two boys - or any dilettantes like them - raises my hackles. but i see myself in them. drinking coffee that costs almost as much as wine and is as meticulously cultivated...
i feel like i'm in rome. but though i'd like to believe i'm the one putting on the show in the coliseum, i know that's not true. only the show has changed. or, perhaps there's another ring of watchers, just outside the walls, that cater to the self-appointed masters and fool them into thinking their wine has no water, and their show is the one to watch.
i see the course of history like an increasingly fractaled vortex, where our observations of ourselves have become so rife with symbols, and symbols of symbols, that we begin to see only reflected pieces of ourselves and not the original. we can no longer see what is, we see only what was in the past or in a representation of an event. we are more likely to reference a movie to describe an event than we are to speak in factual terms about what is actually happening.
it's like this whole S&P downgrade debacle. if the government hadn't made a big, unnecessary stink about raising the debt ceiling - this really should have been a mechanical piece of legislation, passed in the dead of night like all the others - then the S&P would never have had "concerns" about the state of the US economy. but because it was used as a vehicle for political machinations, it brought attention to the instability underlying the US economy. an instability, mind you, that has been made worse by the politically charged negotiations over a pitiful $3 trillion dollars.
so what does the downgrade really mean? well, nothing. it's symbolic. just like the stock market, just like the debt ceiling, just like all the other policies that aim to impact the economy. what's really wrong with the US economy? everything! but those symbols aren't there to reflect that; worse, they're not going to change it, no matter how much debt we're legally allowed to accumulate, or how likely the S&P believes our ability to pay it back (the debt, just like the rest, is a symbol...it will never be paid back).
so, for these two young boys, i sympathize. how do you become men in a world where nothing is safe or sacred? how do you know where you stand, and how do you make a difference? more simply: what do you make? and what value does it have? when it comes down to it, we'd all be best served by creating farm cooperatives and growing food. because food means something. you can eat it when you can't sell your art, or your tortured novel, or you lose your job selling fixed gear bikes to college kids with dwindling trust funds.
i know i'm going down with this ship. what about you?
like:
do you think our minds really adjust to inflation?
you mean, that the value of money decreases every year?
yeah.
and then:
the worst thing about that is even if you put your money in some bank and leave it there, you lose money.
unless you get a good interest rate, and there are no good interest rates anymore.
oh, the weight of the world. how do we bear it?
but really, how do we?
does knowing the troubles of the world help us to solve its' problems? or even our own?
it's hard for me to believe it matters at all. perhaps it's narcissism or nihilism, but the way we muddle through seems so irrelevant. injustice continues in some form - whether we stifle in the rigidity of tribal isolation, or stumble through the self-seeking, self-service of contemporary western individualism. and though we rarely see past ourselves - here in 21st century america, at least - our individual destinies do not matter to the world.
the only thing that matters is that two of us survive to reproduce, to continue our species to the next cataclysm in evolution. and we can't see our way towards that point, or through it.
even if we were able to comprehend long term planning, or collective action, or common goods, the next super volcano or climate rocking comet or plague will kill us off at biologically precedented rates.
this is not to say that what we do until then - individually and collectively - is and should be out of our hands.
the opposite is true, in fact.
if we can't see past our survival, why don't we live like today is our last day on this earth? but not a wasted day. the one day we have to define ourselves. not to fuck and eat and cheat each other with animal abandon, but to transcend our animal bonds and become human. one day to love and respect and protect and relish the paradise in which we exist. profit means nothing here. hierarchy is ridiculous. inequality inane.
relieve these boys of the burden of philosophy and let them, let us all LIVE. today is the only day.
maybe i'm feeling sentimental cause i'm out of a job, for now. or maybe it's hot out and i'm feeling heated and moody. or maybe riots and fires in london seem like the only rational behavior. order is overrated, but i'm no anarchist.
listening to those two boys - or any dilettantes like them - raises my hackles. but i see myself in them. drinking coffee that costs almost as much as wine and is as meticulously cultivated...
i feel like i'm in rome. but though i'd like to believe i'm the one putting on the show in the coliseum, i know that's not true. only the show has changed. or, perhaps there's another ring of watchers, just outside the walls, that cater to the self-appointed masters and fool them into thinking their wine has no water, and their show is the one to watch.
i see the course of history like an increasingly fractaled vortex, where our observations of ourselves have become so rife with symbols, and symbols of symbols, that we begin to see only reflected pieces of ourselves and not the original. we can no longer see what is, we see only what was in the past or in a representation of an event. we are more likely to reference a movie to describe an event than we are to speak in factual terms about what is actually happening.
it's like this whole S&P downgrade debacle. if the government hadn't made a big, unnecessary stink about raising the debt ceiling - this really should have been a mechanical piece of legislation, passed in the dead of night like all the others - then the S&P would never have had "concerns" about the state of the US economy. but because it was used as a vehicle for political machinations, it brought attention to the instability underlying the US economy. an instability, mind you, that has been made worse by the politically charged negotiations over a pitiful $3 trillion dollars.
so what does the downgrade really mean? well, nothing. it's symbolic. just like the stock market, just like the debt ceiling, just like all the other policies that aim to impact the economy. what's really wrong with the US economy? everything! but those symbols aren't there to reflect that; worse, they're not going to change it, no matter how much debt we're legally allowed to accumulate, or how likely the S&P believes our ability to pay it back (the debt, just like the rest, is a symbol...it will never be paid back).
so, for these two young boys, i sympathize. how do you become men in a world where nothing is safe or sacred? how do you know where you stand, and how do you make a difference? more simply: what do you make? and what value does it have? when it comes down to it, we'd all be best served by creating farm cooperatives and growing food. because food means something. you can eat it when you can't sell your art, or your tortured novel, or you lose your job selling fixed gear bikes to college kids with dwindling trust funds.
i know i'm going down with this ship. what about you?
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