Jedd Davis needs his morning coffee. Here’s what he has to say:
"I feel like everyone is taking crazy pills!"
I'm considering including that tid-bit in my e-mail signature because I find myself believing it more and more each day.
Why are things so difficult? Better yet, why do people have to make things so difficult? You know who these crazy pill-popping evil-doers are. I'm not talking terrorists here, or even hippies for that matter. I’m talking about people who don’t know how to stand in line at the coffee shop. I'm talking about the person that hoards the entire milk bar and taste-tests his coffee for 10 minutes. Dude, I'm standing next to you, jonezing for my
morning brew - move over. Or better yet, the guy that picks a register and creates his own line, instead of getting in line with the rest of us – c’mon guy, we’re not all standing there waiting for Santa Claus.
I find little infractions of this sort maddening. Are these people really that clueless? You can see the crazy pills working in their eyes. You just know you're supposed to hate them.
To me, common sense is a way of life - make that, the way of life. To not adhere to common sense is, well, senseless. Pardon me for pointing out the obvious; I’m really not looking to establish common ground here. It’s certainly not a kum baya let's all get along thing, so I'll just say, "step aside, I want my coffee."
- Jedd Davis
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Monday, March 29, 2004
I have to admit that I don’t know very much about what is going on in the world of political talk radio. College radio and cartoons compose the vast majority of my media intake.
I do know that Rush Limbaugh was hopped up on prescription drugs, and I have to say that I can’t blame him.
It is entirely possible that the talk show I heard this morning on AM radio is an anomaly. It is very reasonable to assume that not every political talk show on AM radio espouses fear and hatred. If they did, that would be horrific, right? If they did, that would be a social disservice worthy of a criminal mastermind.
With limited exposure to this genre of radio, what I heard shocked me. Is this the voice of the right? I hope not. This is the voice of fear, vitriol and ignorance. Through the radio, I heard groups marginalized, ideals blasted and lifestyles attacked in a way that I haven’t heard since I left the confines of schoolyard fascism.
The commentator was belligerent, unequivocal, prejudice, and, surprisingly, a woman. Every topic apparently called for the brutal unsympathetic, irrational attack of a zealot, but these were not religious fundamentalists. These were Republicans. (I’ve always considered Republicans people who would rather lower personal taxes and spend less on social programs. According to these people, Republicans are vicious barking dogs - foaming bigotry and xenophobia at the mouth.)
The program I heard covered quite a few issues of domestic policy: how the government intruded in the lives of poor people buy giving them welfare, how irresponsible it was to be poor, and how poor people choose poverty over wealth.
They also covered foreign affairs: According to this program, Europe opposed the war in Iraq because Europeans are frightened and womanish. That was the main point. The second point was that the frightened and womanish Europeans are too limp-wristed to fight in a war that might upset their Muslim minority - I never new that. I thought it had something to do with opposing preemptive strikes against countries that posed no imminent threat.
Beside that, I think America proved that it is far more dangerous to upset us than any religious minority. We proved that when we stonewalled Europe when it came to Iraqi development contracts, or, for that matter, when we took over Iraqi for looking at us sideways.
The commentator concluded the discussion of foreign policy with this statement of fact: “before the end of our lifetime, Europe will be a Muslim continent.” The subtext, of course, is that Europeans will finally be wearing dresses.
I jest, but this type of media is very frightening to me. This media is hate propaganda. In a single commute, I heard Europeans slandered, poor people insulted, and Muslims attacked. I also heard the Bush administration revered as the paragon of modern governance. I thought that we were all pretty set on the idea that the Bush administration lied to the world in order to take over a country that posed no real threat, and that they have a strange preoccupation with gays, so I was pretty surprised to hear them protected so fervently.
I get surprised a lot, like when Schwarzenegger was elected as Governor, or when we actually went to war with Iraq. These things surprise me because they are not the acts of a few nuts; they are the acts of a population. I never really understood it, but after this morning I suppose that I am closer to it.
Please people, don’t hate.
I do know that Rush Limbaugh was hopped up on prescription drugs, and I have to say that I can’t blame him.
It is entirely possible that the talk show I heard this morning on AM radio is an anomaly. It is very reasonable to assume that not every political talk show on AM radio espouses fear and hatred. If they did, that would be horrific, right? If they did, that would be a social disservice worthy of a criminal mastermind.
With limited exposure to this genre of radio, what I heard shocked me. Is this the voice of the right? I hope not. This is the voice of fear, vitriol and ignorance. Through the radio, I heard groups marginalized, ideals blasted and lifestyles attacked in a way that I haven’t heard since I left the confines of schoolyard fascism.
The commentator was belligerent, unequivocal, prejudice, and, surprisingly, a woman. Every topic apparently called for the brutal unsympathetic, irrational attack of a zealot, but these were not religious fundamentalists. These were Republicans. (I’ve always considered Republicans people who would rather lower personal taxes and spend less on social programs. According to these people, Republicans are vicious barking dogs - foaming bigotry and xenophobia at the mouth.)
The program I heard covered quite a few issues of domestic policy: how the government intruded in the lives of poor people buy giving them welfare, how irresponsible it was to be poor, and how poor people choose poverty over wealth.
They also covered foreign affairs: According to this program, Europe opposed the war in Iraq because Europeans are frightened and womanish. That was the main point. The second point was that the frightened and womanish Europeans are too limp-wristed to fight in a war that might upset their Muslim minority - I never new that. I thought it had something to do with opposing preemptive strikes against countries that posed no imminent threat.
Beside that, I think America proved that it is far more dangerous to upset us than any religious minority. We proved that when we stonewalled Europe when it came to Iraqi development contracts, or, for that matter, when we took over Iraqi for looking at us sideways.
The commentator concluded the discussion of foreign policy with this statement of fact: “before the end of our lifetime, Europe will be a Muslim continent.” The subtext, of course, is that Europeans will finally be wearing dresses.
I jest, but this type of media is very frightening to me. This media is hate propaganda. In a single commute, I heard Europeans slandered, poor people insulted, and Muslims attacked. I also heard the Bush administration revered as the paragon of modern governance. I thought that we were all pretty set on the idea that the Bush administration lied to the world in order to take over a country that posed no real threat, and that they have a strange preoccupation with gays, so I was pretty surprised to hear them protected so fervently.
I get surprised a lot, like when Schwarzenegger was elected as Governor, or when we actually went to war with Iraq. These things surprise me because they are not the acts of a few nuts; they are the acts of a population. I never really understood it, but after this morning I suppose that I am closer to it.
Please people, don’t hate.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
This just in . . .
The notorious laptop thief David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme was shot as he left a movie house matinee. The shoot out rained bullets on the dapper thief.
New Flash...
David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme, the Hollywood desperado, Americas favorite bad-man was see running down Wilshire Boulevard after fleeing from a firefight with the authorities. In mid flight, the criminal with a flare for fashion ducked into a local bistro where, according to one patron, he paused for a martini before dashing through the back door leaving a trail of blood.
This just in . . .
Police, using hounds to follow the scent of blood hit a dead end when they entered a Roman-style bathhouse. Using any resource he had available, Fromme proved his nickname was earned as he eluded the dragnet once again. Said Officer Mulroney, "We just don't know where he went." It seems laptops and young women are in danger once again.
News Flash...
The Kalamata Jewels, considered by many to be the most valuable collection of precious stones in the world, and three laptop computers were reported missing this afternoon in Los Angeles. Tiffany and Company, charged with protecting the jewels while in transit from the Isle of Rhodes to their new owner, the South American platinum heiress Isabella Diablo, claims that the gems have vanished into mid air. The only eyewitness, a statuesque blonde with pouting lips and huge blue eyes, was found outside the Tiffany building with disheveled hair and smoking a cigarette. Her only statement to the authorities: "He was good."
This just in . . .
A haute couture male fashion store on Rodeo Drive has reported to police that a man that fits the description of 'Slippery Silicon' Fromme hoodwinked the sales staff out of $30,000 of clothes and accessories. Said the clerk on the scene, "One minute he was here shopping with I don't know how many hot tomatoes and the next they were all gone. I can't figure it." Although eyewitness accounts of the man are vague, police suspect Fromme because a piece from the Kalamata Jewels was found in the cash register. This fits with Fromme's M.O. of never stealing high fashion.
New's Flash...
A dashing young financier, CIA and Interpol believe to be the notorious laptop heist mastermind David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme, has surfaced in South America. At the head of a guerilla army and dressed to the nines, the international playboy-superthief has stoked the revolutionary fire of the people. "The revolution is here!" Fromme sang with elan - and with Isabella Diablo, the heiress with the mostest, on his arm, this overthrow is fated for love. Coup d'etat for two?
The notorious laptop thief David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme was shot as he left a movie house matinee. The shoot out rained bullets on the dapper thief.
New Flash...
David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme, the Hollywood desperado, Americas favorite bad-man was see running down Wilshire Boulevard after fleeing from a firefight with the authorities. In mid flight, the criminal with a flare for fashion ducked into a local bistro where, according to one patron, he paused for a martini before dashing through the back door leaving a trail of blood.
This just in . . .
Police, using hounds to follow the scent of blood hit a dead end when they entered a Roman-style bathhouse. Using any resource he had available, Fromme proved his nickname was earned as he eluded the dragnet once again. Said Officer Mulroney, "We just don't know where he went." It seems laptops and young women are in danger once again.
News Flash...
The Kalamata Jewels, considered by many to be the most valuable collection of precious stones in the world, and three laptop computers were reported missing this afternoon in Los Angeles. Tiffany and Company, charged with protecting the jewels while in transit from the Isle of Rhodes to their new owner, the South American platinum heiress Isabella Diablo, claims that the gems have vanished into mid air. The only eyewitness, a statuesque blonde with pouting lips and huge blue eyes, was found outside the Tiffany building with disheveled hair and smoking a cigarette. Her only statement to the authorities: "He was good."
This just in . . .
A haute couture male fashion store on Rodeo Drive has reported to police that a man that fits the description of 'Slippery Silicon' Fromme hoodwinked the sales staff out of $30,000 of clothes and accessories. Said the clerk on the scene, "One minute he was here shopping with I don't know how many hot tomatoes and the next they were all gone. I can't figure it." Although eyewitness accounts of the man are vague, police suspect Fromme because a piece from the Kalamata Jewels was found in the cash register. This fits with Fromme's M.O. of never stealing high fashion.
New's Flash...
A dashing young financier, CIA and Interpol believe to be the notorious laptop heist mastermind David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme, has surfaced in South America. At the head of a guerilla army and dressed to the nines, the international playboy-superthief has stoked the revolutionary fire of the people. "The revolution is here!" Fromme sang with elan - and with Isabella Diablo, the heiress with the mostest, on his arm, this overthrow is fated for love. Coup d'etat for two?
Friday, March 19, 2004
Here’s something new. A story about my grandmother.
In 1943, just outside of Oakland, California, in the community of Richmond, Guadalupe Duran brought down a baseball bat with full force onto the head of her young husband.
Lupe, as she was known, was petite and hot-tempered, and at age of 28 she was already the mother of four. She was an immigrant from Culiacan, Mexico, and her unfortunate husband, Charles, was a dazzling California-born playboy.
Lupe was 13 and Charles was 16 when Lupe’s family moved from Pasadena to Northern California. Charles made regular trips from Pasadena across California's Central Valley on the second weekend of every month to visit Lupe. At 14, Lupe married Charles, who, with the wisdom of 17 years under his belt, had a car.
Fourteen years later, on a hot and windy summer night, Charles was out philandering. He was notorious for it, and he was, as it happened, very good at it. He had majestic presence, and women adored him. Charles dressed and spoke well; he was serious and funny, strong and passionate. His hair, well coiffed, was resplendent with Brill Cream, and in a certain light, his profile resembled that of Clark Gable.
In the past, Lupe had thrown plates and swung her arms at her adulterous Don Juan. The smell of perfume and alcohol had driven her into hysterics on countless evenings and on countless bleary-eyed mornings. This time, however, the cheating was systematic and deliberate. It was ritualized in its neglect. It was an affair.
When Charles surreptitiously crept through the kitchen door, Lupe’s mood was murderous. Lupe screamed at Charles in her native tongue, damning him with strange and perverse curses. Because Charles was gentle, her soaring pitch escalated unchecked.
Charles, it was true, had been seeing the blond girl that hung around their bar. The girls called her Goldie. Her pale skin and her platinum hair were an anomaly, an eye-sore, and a threat. It was also true that Goldie was pregnant with Charles’ baby, so when Lupe reached for the bat and took it to her husband, she swung righteously.
The beating was rather one-sided; Charles was not violent. He was corrupt. Lupe, on the other hand was virtuous, but extremely violent.
She was also vindictive. When the police arrived, Lupe triumphantly had Charles arrested.
Why the police arrested Charles, and not Lupe, can only be attributed to the officers’ sense of self-preservation. At 5'2" and just over a hundred pounds, Lupe was more dangerous than a gang of hoodlums. The arrest was an act of mercy for both Lupe and Charles.
In 1943, just outside of Oakland, California, in the community of Richmond, Guadalupe Duran brought down a baseball bat with full force onto the head of her young husband.
Lupe, as she was known, was petite and hot-tempered, and at age of 28 she was already the mother of four. She was an immigrant from Culiacan, Mexico, and her unfortunate husband, Charles, was a dazzling California-born playboy.
Lupe was 13 and Charles was 16 when Lupe’s family moved from Pasadena to Northern California. Charles made regular trips from Pasadena across California's Central Valley on the second weekend of every month to visit Lupe. At 14, Lupe married Charles, who, with the wisdom of 17 years under his belt, had a car.
Fourteen years later, on a hot and windy summer night, Charles was out philandering. He was notorious for it, and he was, as it happened, very good at it. He had majestic presence, and women adored him. Charles dressed and spoke well; he was serious and funny, strong and passionate. His hair, well coiffed, was resplendent with Brill Cream, and in a certain light, his profile resembled that of Clark Gable.
In the past, Lupe had thrown plates and swung her arms at her adulterous Don Juan. The smell of perfume and alcohol had driven her into hysterics on countless evenings and on countless bleary-eyed mornings. This time, however, the cheating was systematic and deliberate. It was ritualized in its neglect. It was an affair.
When Charles surreptitiously crept through the kitchen door, Lupe’s mood was murderous. Lupe screamed at Charles in her native tongue, damning him with strange and perverse curses. Because Charles was gentle, her soaring pitch escalated unchecked.
Charles, it was true, had been seeing the blond girl that hung around their bar. The girls called her Goldie. Her pale skin and her platinum hair were an anomaly, an eye-sore, and a threat. It was also true that Goldie was pregnant with Charles’ baby, so when Lupe reached for the bat and took it to her husband, she swung righteously.
The beating was rather one-sided; Charles was not violent. He was corrupt. Lupe, on the other hand was virtuous, but extremely violent.
She was also vindictive. When the police arrived, Lupe triumphantly had Charles arrested.
Why the police arrested Charles, and not Lupe, can only be attributed to the officers’ sense of self-preservation. At 5'2" and just over a hundred pounds, Lupe was more dangerous than a gang of hoodlums. The arrest was an act of mercy for both Lupe and Charles.
Here’s something new. A story about my grandmother.
In 1943, just outside of Oakland, California, in the community of Richmond, Guadalupe Duran brought down a baseball bat with full force onto the head of her young husband.
Lupe, as she was known, was petite and hot-tempered, and at age of 28 she was already the mother of four. She was an immigrant from Culiacan, Mexico, and her unfortunate husband, Charles, was a dazzling California-born playboy.
Lupe was 13 and Charles was 16 when Lupe’s family moved from Pasadena to Northern California. Charles made regular trips from Pasadena across California's Central Valley on the second weekend of every month to visit Lupe. At 14, Lupe married Charles, who, with the wisdom of 17 years under his belt, had a car.
Fourteen years later, on a hot and windy summer night, Charles was out philandering. He was notorious for it, and he was, as it happened, very good at it. He had majestic presence, and women adored him. Charles dressed and spoke well; he was serious and funny, strong and passionate. His hair, well coiffed, was resplendent with Brill Cream, and in a certain light, his profile resembled that of Clark Gable.
In the past, Lupe had thrown plates and swung her arms at her adulterous Don Juan. The smell of perfume and alcohol had driven her into hysterics on countless evenings and on countless bleary-eyed mornings. This time, however, the cheating was systematic and deliberate. It was ritualized in its neglect. It was an affair.
When Charles surreptitiously crept through the kitchen door, Lupe’s mood was murderous. Lupe screamed at Charles in her native tongue, damning him with strange and perverse curses. Because Charles was gentle, her soaring pitch escalated unchecked.
Charles, it was true, had been seeing the blond girl that hung around their bar. The girls called her Goldie. Her pale skin and her platinum hair were an anomaly, an eye-sore, and a threat. It was also true that Goldie was pregnant with Charles’ baby, so when Lupe reached for the bat and took it to her husband, she swung righteously.
The beating was rather one-sided; Charles was not violent. He was corrupt. Lupe, on the other hand was virtuous, but extremely violent.
She was also vindictive. When the police arrived, Lupe triumphantly had Charles arrested.
Why the police arrested Charles, and not Lupe, can only be attributed to the officers’ sense of self-preservation. At 5'2" and just over a hundred pounds, Lupe was more dangerous than a gang of hoodlums. The arrest was an act of mercy for both Lupe and Charles.
In 1943, just outside of Oakland, California, in the community of Richmond, Guadalupe Duran brought down a baseball bat with full force onto the head of her young husband.
Lupe, as she was known, was petite and hot-tempered, and at age of 28 she was already the mother of four. She was an immigrant from Culiacan, Mexico, and her unfortunate husband, Charles, was a dazzling California-born playboy.
Lupe was 13 and Charles was 16 when Lupe’s family moved from Pasadena to Northern California. Charles made regular trips from Pasadena across California's Central Valley on the second weekend of every month to visit Lupe. At 14, Lupe married Charles, who, with the wisdom of 17 years under his belt, had a car.
Fourteen years later, on a hot and windy summer night, Charles was out philandering. He was notorious for it, and he was, as it happened, very good at it. He had majestic presence, and women adored him. Charles dressed and spoke well; he was serious and funny, strong and passionate. His hair, well coiffed, was resplendent with Brill Cream, and in a certain light, his profile resembled that of Clark Gable.
In the past, Lupe had thrown plates and swung her arms at her adulterous Don Juan. The smell of perfume and alcohol had driven her into hysterics on countless evenings and on countless bleary-eyed mornings. This time, however, the cheating was systematic and deliberate. It was ritualized in its neglect. It was an affair.
When Charles surreptitiously crept through the kitchen door, Lupe’s mood was murderous. Lupe screamed at Charles in her native tongue, damning him with strange and perverse curses. Because Charles was gentle, her soaring pitch escalated unchecked.
Charles, it was true, had been seeing the blond girl that hung around their bar. The girls called her Goldie. Her pale skin and her platinum hair were an anomaly, an eye-sore, and a threat. It was also true that Goldie was pregnant with Charles’ baby, so when Lupe reached for the bat and took it to her husband, she swung righteously.
The beating was rather one-sided; Charles was not violent. He was corrupt. Lupe, on the other hand was virtuous, but extremely violent.
She was also vindictive. When the police arrived, Lupe triumphantly had Charles arrested.
Why the police arrested Charles, and not Lupe, can only be attributed to the officers’ sense of self-preservation. At 5'2" and just over a hundred pounds, Lupe was more dangerous than a gang of hoodlums. The arrest was an act of mercy for both Lupe and Charles.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
(with spelling corrections)
I don't have a car, and I'd like one. At first I was a concerned because I don't have any money. It seemed to me that if I can't afford something like, oh, I don't know, food, that a car worth thousands might be a bit out of my reach. This turns out not to be the case. The banks don't seem to mind that I don't have any money in my checking account, and if it doesn't bother them, then it doesn't bother me.
My second concern was my credit rating. My credit is so bad that when I tried to sign up for one of those credit management services they wouldn't accept my check. When I was 18 I drove a fresh new credit card into the ground. After college, I defaulted on a student loan for a full year, and just recently, I apparently bounced a co-pay to my dentist - a $50 bill that landed on my credit report.
No one cares! These banks are run by monkeys. People are clambering over themselves to give me money. I went to one of those car loan sites where they find you the best rates, and I've been approved for so many loans that I could buy a house. Suddenly, I'm a fat cat.
Now, as I take the bus to work, it's a shopping trip. I look out the window at the passing traffic and turn my nose up at cars that I don't feel fit my self-image. I don't really think that I am Ford Festiva kind of people. '91 Jetta? Nice, but does it communicate how deeply concerned I am about Tebet? How about a BMW? I don't think that I'd buy a BMW, not because of how much it costs, but because I can't afford it.
Now, I'm looking at a Volvo. I like it because it is European, which is all class, and because it conveys a certain restraint in the vast consumption that I am clearly capable of because I am driving a Volvo. I am also considering an Audi which does the same thing.
I'm a bit amazed by my vanity. I take the bus and yet an '82 Corolla feels below me. Even a newish Honda feels too generic to gel with my specialness. This is the kind of thinking that got me onto the bus in the first place. Step one is to admit that you are powerless before really great stuff. Step two is believing that a power greater than yourself will get really great stuff for you, and step three is to turn your life over to really great stuff as you understand it.
I, of course, have already reached step 12 where I get to help other people understand why good enough isn't.
I don't have a car, and I'd like one. At first I was a concerned because I don't have any money. It seemed to me that if I can't afford something like, oh, I don't know, food, that a car worth thousands might be a bit out of my reach. This turns out not to be the case. The banks don't seem to mind that I don't have any money in my checking account, and if it doesn't bother them, then it doesn't bother me.
My second concern was my credit rating. My credit is so bad that when I tried to sign up for one of those credit management services they wouldn't accept my check. When I was 18 I drove a fresh new credit card into the ground. After college, I defaulted on a student loan for a full year, and just recently, I apparently bounced a co-pay to my dentist - a $50 bill that landed on my credit report.
No one cares! These banks are run by monkeys. People are clambering over themselves to give me money. I went to one of those car loan sites where they find you the best rates, and I've been approved for so many loans that I could buy a house. Suddenly, I'm a fat cat.
Now, as I take the bus to work, it's a shopping trip. I look out the window at the passing traffic and turn my nose up at cars that I don't feel fit my self-image. I don't really think that I am Ford Festiva kind of people. '91 Jetta? Nice, but does it communicate how deeply concerned I am about Tebet? How about a BMW? I don't think that I'd buy a BMW, not because of how much it costs, but because I can't afford it.
Now, I'm looking at a Volvo. I like it because it is European, which is all class, and because it conveys a certain restraint in the vast consumption that I am clearly capable of because I am driving a Volvo. I am also considering an Audi which does the same thing.
I'm a bit amazed by my vanity. I take the bus and yet an '82 Corolla feels below me. Even a newish Honda feels too generic to gel with my specialness. This is the kind of thinking that got me onto the bus in the first place. Step one is to admit that you are powerless before really great stuff. Step two is believing that a power greater than yourself will get really great stuff for you, and step three is to turn your life over to really great stuff as you understand it.
I, of course, have already reached step 12 where I get to help other people understand why good enough isn't.
Jedd Davis wants to know what's next. Here's what he has to say:
We all know that bling bling is now blah blah, so my question is, what the hell are we supposed to get excited about next? Middle-aged women don't bat an eye when a car rolls down Montana Ave. blaring hip-hop. For Christ's sake, Snoop Dog is a Muppet on Crank Yankers! How are our children going to rebel? Gansta Rap - dead. Teen drug use - plummeting. Teen pregnancy - down. Teen suicide - well, I guess there's hope. This whole disney-fication of america select-an-identity thing is going a little too far. Everyone looks the same, straight out of a magazine - I guess that advertising stuff does work after all, my bad. Everyone already shops at the gap, and now it appears, with the death of bling bling that you'll be able to get your gangsta gap on too from brands like sean jean, rock-a-wear, etc., who want to dress it up for the grown-up hip hoppers.
Who wants to give it up for being an individual? Is that even possible anymore with such an emphasis on "public living"? The answer is yes, and the truth is in the written word. I wasn't thinking this in the beginning of the post, but Tin Car will set you free. Be an individual and contribute to Tin Car. Contribute to freedom. (how's that for
advertising?).
- Jedd Davis
We all know that bling bling is now blah blah, so my question is, what the hell are we supposed to get excited about next? Middle-aged women don't bat an eye when a car rolls down Montana Ave. blaring hip-hop. For Christ's sake, Snoop Dog is a Muppet on Crank Yankers! How are our children going to rebel? Gansta Rap - dead. Teen drug use - plummeting. Teen pregnancy - down. Teen suicide - well, I guess there's hope. This whole disney-fication of america select-an-identity thing is going a little too far. Everyone looks the same, straight out of a magazine - I guess that advertising stuff does work after all, my bad. Everyone already shops at the gap, and now it appears, with the death of bling bling that you'll be able to get your gangsta gap on too from brands like sean jean, rock-a-wear, etc., who want to dress it up for the grown-up hip hoppers.
Who wants to give it up for being an individual? Is that even possible anymore with such an emphasis on "public living"? The answer is yes, and the truth is in the written word. I wasn't thinking this in the beginning of the post, but Tin Car will set you free. Be an individual and contribute to Tin Car. Contribute to freedom. (how's that for
advertising?).
- Jedd Davis
Friday, March 05, 2004
Jill, my girlfriend and spiritual leader, asked me, "If we can make big chocolate cakes, why can’t we make Champaign?" That’s right! Why can’t we? I say we can.
I turn my back on people who say, "you can’t do that." I thumb my nose at people who tell me, "Sir, that’s for women", and I drop my pants and moon tyrants who claim "that’s illegal."
The last time some one told me that I couldn’t do something, do you know what I told them? I asked if I could at least watch.
No longer will the norms and mores or our oppressive society, rife with its left-turn-only –signs, restrict us. Who does it think it think it is, Mr. Oppressive Society? A bully, that’s who.
Next time you’re up at 6am, whacked out on Campari and Valium, don’t blame the liquor store because you can’t get a bottle of bubbly. Defy the naysayers and brew your own, and pass the barbs once more round.
I turn my back on people who say, "you can’t do that." I thumb my nose at people who tell me, "Sir, that’s for women", and I drop my pants and moon tyrants who claim "that’s illegal."
The last time some one told me that I couldn’t do something, do you know what I told them? I asked if I could at least watch.
No longer will the norms and mores or our oppressive society, rife with its left-turn-only –signs, restrict us. Who does it think it think it is, Mr. Oppressive Society? A bully, that’s who.
Next time you’re up at 6am, whacked out on Campari and Valium, don’t blame the liquor store because you can’t get a bottle of bubbly. Defy the naysayers and brew your own, and pass the barbs once more round.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
