No editing was undertaken in the following. They are complete quotes that follow each other directly with no gaps between them.
"If all spending justified itself, we would pay people to dig holes and then refill them -- or build bridges to unpopulated Alaskan islands."
Spending is economically beneficial only when I approve of the good or service being paid for.
"Spending is good if the purchaser, or the recipient of a gift, values the commodity more than he does the money it costs. Otherwise, there is a subtraction from society's store of value."
Wait. I meant spending is only economically beneficial when either the purchaser or recipient approve of the good or service being paid for.
"Christmas etiquette involves composing one's face to feign pleasure when unwrapping an unwelcome windfall -- say, a sweater of an appalling color and a style that went out of style in the 1940s -- and murmuring "Oh, you shouldn't have" without revealing that you mean exactly that. Price of the sweater: $50. Value to recipient: $0. Actually, less than zero, considering the psychological cost of the forced smile."
Dangit. I meant it's only economically beneficial when both the purchaser and recipient approve of the good or service being paid for. Otherwise it's an economic contraction.
And this is why we're going into the economic abyss. I can't even begin to call this the beanie-baby theory of economics. I can't even slander women or liberals with this sort of feelings based magickal thinking. Not even children and ripped-bodice authors can imbue feelings with such concrete violence as to evaporate or incorporate slugs of metal. Not even the medieval alchemists went so far and they tried to make money right out of the air.
No matter what you may think about dating, massage parlors, marriage, and guilt flowers? Emotions are not the nations currency. Apparently it is only the properly credentialed scientists of money that can swallow the economic school of Empathic Monetarism. Where the printing presses are fueled by warm fuzzies. And money is retired by disgruntled Germans shoveling currency into blast furnaces fueled by unwanted sweaters.
Blessings
Happy Thanksgiving!" It's an odd turn of phrase. Surely no one shakes their fist at the heavens because they are cursed by blessings. And yet today we find the entire concept of taking thankful stock of what fortune you have has been turned into a baccanalian orgy of distant family and dead poultry. In that sense, I suppose, the wishful "Happy" qualifier makes sense when we're burdened with the thought of suffering a close distance to a family we'd as soon disown. Or simply in mortification over the coming health club dues needed to offset the gluttony of the holiday season.
No, Thanksgiving has become a time when we can display our wealth and claims to status to our friends and family. And we secure their obeisance to our parade of shwag by sedating them heavily with tryptophan. Only in our venal and narcissistic modernity would we forcibly display our great fortune a month before social graces require that our family bestow on us a further increase in our toys.
It is one edge of the sword. For giving thanks relies on our acknowledgement that at least we're not as degraded as that other wretch. But how hollow the iron heart that congratulates itself at another's disfortune?
And while a tricky task enough for Christians, for the secular sort to find any other solace than such elendfreude is more difficult still. For the other edge of the sword is to share what bounty as we may have with those that do not. Not enforced by the point of a gun every April 15th and not by pity or feigned morality. Just simple kindness coming naturally from the joy in our hearts. A joy missing unless we do account honestly and humbly for our own comforts such as we have them. Thanksgiving needs no qualifier of happiness; joy is its very meaning.
Today is remarkable only in that we found it culturally worthwhile for us all to have one day of reflection on just such things. To find joy in a blackened world. I hope you all, Christian and Atheist alike, can find such a notion today for we are all blessed beyond what we've earned.
No, Thanksgiving has become a time when we can display our wealth and claims to status to our friends and family. And we secure their obeisance to our parade of shwag by sedating them heavily with tryptophan. Only in our venal and narcissistic modernity would we forcibly display our great fortune a month before social graces require that our family bestow on us a further increase in our toys.
It is one edge of the sword. For giving thanks relies on our acknowledgement that at least we're not as degraded as that other wretch. But how hollow the iron heart that congratulates itself at another's disfortune?
And while a tricky task enough for Christians, for the secular sort to find any other solace than such elendfreude is more difficult still. For the other edge of the sword is to share what bounty as we may have with those that do not. Not enforced by the point of a gun every April 15th and not by pity or feigned morality. Just simple kindness coming naturally from the joy in our hearts. A joy missing unless we do account honestly and humbly for our own comforts such as we have them. Thanksgiving needs no qualifier of happiness; joy is its very meaning.
Today is remarkable only in that we found it culturally worthwhile for us all to have one day of reflection on just such things. To find joy in a blackened world. I hope you all, Christian and Atheist alike, can find such a notion today for we are all blessed beyond what we've earned.
Rounding First
Just pulling out of Clarksville right now. Next stop, St. Louis
Update: So much for cell service in St. Louis. KC worked out though. I'm taking a breather at a service island on the toll portion of I-70. In all the years I've discussed the error with the federal government withholding highway funds from the states I've always overlooked the other half. Since the highways are postal roads it's up to the feds to fund them; full stop. But then how does a state get to placing a toll on those same roads? Ah well, every level of government gave up legal rule in favor of a Socractic hemlock cure years ago.
The vardo's been working a right trick in top gear. After getting run for a while pulling out of a gas station requires some white knuckles and some very loud sea salt. But yes, top gear works nicely. Being the cheap git that I am, I'd thought drafting rigs would be a good plan. Which might work in Kansas, but was a sorely poor plan in Missouri. The basic idea is that you get close up behind the trailer and let the rig do the work of plowing the air for you. It works for the trucker also as you help reduce his drag. Everybody wins as long as I stuff the nose of the vardo within 10 feet of a very large set of tail lights. Which ends up being anywhere from 4-20 feet when you run the hills of Missouri; the vertical state. Missouri, for those that don't know, goes straight up from east to west. Save all the parts where it goes straight down as well. So after some white knuckles and some very loud sea salt I determined a better course of action was to leave Missouri.
So onto the home stretch as it were. I think I'll try to pay the highway toll with summer sausage for the entertainment.
Update: Home plate. For various values of home.
Update: So much for cell service in St. Louis. KC worked out though. I'm taking a breather at a service island on the toll portion of I-70. In all the years I've discussed the error with the federal government withholding highway funds from the states I've always overlooked the other half. Since the highways are postal roads it's up to the feds to fund them; full stop. But then how does a state get to placing a toll on those same roads? Ah well, every level of government gave up legal rule in favor of a Socractic hemlock cure years ago.
The vardo's been working a right trick in top gear. After getting run for a while pulling out of a gas station requires some white knuckles and some very loud sea salt. But yes, top gear works nicely. Being the cheap git that I am, I'd thought drafting rigs would be a good plan. Which might work in Kansas, but was a sorely poor plan in Missouri. The basic idea is that you get close up behind the trailer and let the rig do the work of plowing the air for you. It works for the trucker also as you help reduce his drag. Everybody wins as long as I stuff the nose of the vardo within 10 feet of a very large set of tail lights. Which ends up being anywhere from 4-20 feet when you run the hills of Missouri; the vertical state. Missouri, for those that don't know, goes straight up from east to west. Save all the parts where it goes straight down as well. So after some white knuckles and some very loud sea salt I determined a better course of action was to leave Missouri.
So onto the home stretch as it were. I think I'll try to pay the highway toll with summer sausage for the entertainment.
Update: Home plate. For various values of home.
All the small things
There's only two things necessary for holding a job as a modern Rom. Hygiene and fashion. There's an absolute regularity required in showers and clean clothing. No matter where you are, whether you sleep under the stars, a trailer, or a tarp your commute has one end firmly anchored where you can locate a functioning shower head. For the price no such animal was available in Dickson. And the condition of the vardo aside my commute is constrained to an affordable distance from the Mission or Campus here in Nashville. The result of which has been a great deal of novel amusement when a white guy tries to hire on with an all black staff. Apparently crackers aren't prone to blue collar work in Music City.
Habitat for Humanity is notably different in this regard, being stocked to the gills with noble crackers on a quest to help the disadvantaged that trace their roots to the dark continent. Given the events yesterday I had planned on having some sport at their expense if it turned out that they weren't hiring. I still have no idea if they are or not. When I walked in this morning the collective sphincter puckering was so violent that there was a thunderclap to set the motivational posters askew. So I had my sport right out of the gates.
After their territorial challenges I informed that I do them good service by the accident of presence running off the drug and prostitution deals so common on their back stoop. And that they had already shown that they were willing to bend me over the rail, what with yesterday. That since it was just like employment we might as well make it formal. They invited me to leave. I invited them to start breeding outside their family. They invited me to take it outside. I invited them to call the police again. They informed that they wanted to avoid conflict. Pussies.
I leaned against the vardo -- parked exactly where it was yesterday -- and sipped on some instant coffee for a while, curious to see if they had the balls to even look at me. They went about their work with heads down. Pussies.
So here's to Jimmy Carter: Fuck you and your eunuchs. I could have used the lawsuit even if you weren't hiring. The construction worker in the YMCA? Was disco cosplay. Hire real men from now on you stuttering albino peanut fucker.
As I said, the other end of things is a wardrobe. And that's where things get more complicated. As it stands now with the Mission there's no ability to have a wardrobe larger than what you're currently wearing. The camps are full as it is right now, so that leaves just what you can carry; which is at best a single change and another trespass. When the transmission on the vardo gives its last fate will cuddle me like a bunkmate in prison.
Of course it wasn't supposed to work out in this manner. I'd been badgered endlessly about the availability of tools to work on the thing before I decided picking up a vehicle was a wise idea. After all, you have to be an anencephalic moron to purchase a wheezing junker without any ability to keep the thing on the road. The initial plan being to pick up a quickie job delivering pizzas or courier work while working on other things. Naturally the repeated oaths slipped faster than first gear. So puttering around with an oversized plastic teepee on the roof, handing out Italian cuisine to college students, is right out. As is what passes for a wardrobe, and any hope of work, when the thing finally gives out.
So why am I still in Nashville? Until today I had no better place to be. But by one of those amazing coincidences that don't happen I found a shower and a set of tools dangled in front of me while I was staring down the indian, the biker, and the cowboy. And of all possible coincidences that don't happen it will take me back out of the South again. Back to Colorado. Of course doing so just about breaks the bank, but it allows me to keep a change of clothes. Unless lightning strikes I don't see as having any other option than to head back to the Rockies.
Of course it's just as likely the vardo will die in Topeka, as the wagon did the last time I put the South to my heels. I'm certain fate still wants to cuddle.
Habitat for Humanity is notably different in this regard, being stocked to the gills with noble crackers on a quest to help the disadvantaged that trace their roots to the dark continent. Given the events yesterday I had planned on having some sport at their expense if it turned out that they weren't hiring. I still have no idea if they are or not. When I walked in this morning the collective sphincter puckering was so violent that there was a thunderclap to set the motivational posters askew. So I had my sport right out of the gates.
After their territorial challenges I informed that I do them good service by the accident of presence running off the drug and prostitution deals so common on their back stoop. And that they had already shown that they were willing to bend me over the rail, what with yesterday. That since it was just like employment we might as well make it formal. They invited me to leave. I invited them to start breeding outside their family. They invited me to take it outside. I invited them to call the police again. They informed that they wanted to avoid conflict. Pussies.
I leaned against the vardo -- parked exactly where it was yesterday -- and sipped on some instant coffee for a while, curious to see if they had the balls to even look at me. They went about their work with heads down. Pussies.
So here's to Jimmy Carter: Fuck you and your eunuchs. I could have used the lawsuit even if you weren't hiring. The construction worker in the YMCA? Was disco cosplay. Hire real men from now on you stuttering albino peanut fucker.
As I said, the other end of things is a wardrobe. And that's where things get more complicated. As it stands now with the Mission there's no ability to have a wardrobe larger than what you're currently wearing. The camps are full as it is right now, so that leaves just what you can carry; which is at best a single change and another trespass. When the transmission on the vardo gives its last fate will cuddle me like a bunkmate in prison.
Of course it wasn't supposed to work out in this manner. I'd been badgered endlessly about the availability of tools to work on the thing before I decided picking up a vehicle was a wise idea. After all, you have to be an anencephalic moron to purchase a wheezing junker without any ability to keep the thing on the road. The initial plan being to pick up a quickie job delivering pizzas or courier work while working on other things. Naturally the repeated oaths slipped faster than first gear. So puttering around with an oversized plastic teepee on the roof, handing out Italian cuisine to college students, is right out. As is what passes for a wardrobe, and any hope of work, when the thing finally gives out.
So why am I still in Nashville? Until today I had no better place to be. But by one of those amazing coincidences that don't happen I found a shower and a set of tools dangled in front of me while I was staring down the indian, the biker, and the cowboy. And of all possible coincidences that don't happen it will take me back out of the South again. Back to Colorado. Of course doing so just about breaks the bank, but it allows me to keep a change of clothes. Unless lightning strikes I don't see as having any other option than to head back to the Rockies.
Of course it's just as likely the vardo will die in Topeka, as the wagon did the last time I put the South to my heels. I'm certain fate still wants to cuddle.
Oh the humanity
Fun times. The windows around the back of the vardo are tinted to such a degree that it's nearly impossible to see in. With no curtains installed it makes it about as amenable to privacy as you could otherwise ask. In the evenings I simply pull over on a public street, make some instant coffee, and relax in the darkened back of the thing until sleep takes me.
Imagine my surprise tonight when I look up to find a pair of men peering in the front windows, hands and faces pressed against the glass. They didn't see me as they were too intently gandering at my possessions in the front. This necessitated me popping out the side of the vardo with a knife hidden in hand to politely inquire who the fuck they were and what the fuck they thought they were doing.
Turns out the work for Habitat for Humanity. According them they were "concerned" that a van was parked on a public street and just wanted to make sure no one needed assistance. And I'm the risen Christ. It's worth noting that this is a side street in a commercial area and that cars are typically parked all over and left for days. There's an entertainment company up the street, S.I.R., that often sends roadies out on the bus for concert gigs.
After the Habitat guys scampered off and left work I got back to relaxing in the back of the vardo til sleep could take me. Imagine my surprise when a pair of Metro pull up and start peering inside the van with their flashlights. Seems they got a call from the Habitat folks expressing concern about cars being parked on a public street. Go figure.
To their credit Metro was not only polite but friendly and we shared some jokes and chewed the fat for a bit. They collected my information and phone number for future use of course. But they were decent chaps about the whole affair.
Me? I'm simply laughing my ass off about the irony of Habitat for Humanity harassing the homeless. I think I'll put in an application with them tomorrow. That should have them calling the police about terrorists.
Imagine my surprise tonight when I look up to find a pair of men peering in the front windows, hands and faces pressed against the glass. They didn't see me as they were too intently gandering at my possessions in the front. This necessitated me popping out the side of the vardo with a knife hidden in hand to politely inquire who the fuck they were and what the fuck they thought they were doing.
Turns out the work for Habitat for Humanity. According them they were "concerned" that a van was parked on a public street and just wanted to make sure no one needed assistance. And I'm the risen Christ. It's worth noting that this is a side street in a commercial area and that cars are typically parked all over and left for days. There's an entertainment company up the street, S.I.R., that often sends roadies out on the bus for concert gigs.
After the Habitat guys scampered off and left work I got back to relaxing in the back of the vardo til sleep could take me. Imagine my surprise when a pair of Metro pull up and start peering inside the van with their flashlights. Seems they got a call from the Habitat folks expressing concern about cars being parked on a public street. Go figure.
To their credit Metro was not only polite but friendly and we shared some jokes and chewed the fat for a bit. They collected my information and phone number for future use of course. But they were decent chaps about the whole affair.
Me? I'm simply laughing my ass off about the irony of Habitat for Humanity harassing the homeless. I think I'll put in an application with them tomorrow. That should have them calling the police about terrorists.
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