Which brings us back to the old man in the coffeehouse. From this resonates the line Neil Young twisted anew, “Old Man, look at my life. I’m not anything like you are.” Here’s why: As the old man continued to tell his story, relating how he quit smoking because it saved him $40,000 over 10 years, how he served in teh war with the merchant marines, how what he thought was a torpedo headed for his vessel turned out to be a porpoise instead, how he thanked Jesus anyway, how he travelled the world from port to port, how he noticed that all the people in the Third World need is electric light fo rtheir thatched huts, a microwave to cook their sanctified kill, how John Kerry is a traitor for opposing the war, how a unit that refused its doomed supply mission in Iraq are traitors deserving to be shot, too, how the Native Americans should straighten up and fly right, how the world should be made safe for democracy . . . well, I had a lingering phrase that kept sticking in my head. That phrase: This guy is a total asshole. This toothless old fool is what’s wrong with the U.S. of A.
Now, I have nothing against old people. In fact, based on this memo, I would say I plan on being one, too. As I sit around at coffeehouses, the enigmatic fool blowing blue smoke out like a prayer, one of my favorite things to do is look at the old couples with their New York Times and sweet drinks and little poodles barking at passersby, relaxed in a day-long pose, discussing the possible right words for the crossword puzzle, acting like they have nothing but time on their hands . . . well, the thought occurs to me: That’s what I want.
For a time, thinking about the toothless merchant marine non-smoker, I had determined maybe we will all be better off getting a loan for $40,000 and spending it all on cigarettes for the next 10 years. Because as the Bush regime exacts the principle that vengeance is hip in the new century, I figure that is all we, as a people, have left. Especially if the porpoise doesn’t turn into a torpedo to kill the assholes, especially if the assholes rule the waves from port to port, especially if the people of the Third World replace their woodfires with Bunsen burners, especially if everyone is cowed, out of fear of being a traitor, to oppose this war, especially if the doomed supply-si(?) refuse to turn their swords into ploughshares, especially if Native Americans fail to remember their roots, their language, their legacy of communion with the earth, especially if somebody doesn’t decide, including all arrogant bastards here in America, that the world would be just as safer, if not safer, if it didn’t impose democracy--a beautiful ? euphemism ? by for corporate greed and social darwinism and conspicuous consumption. But our arrogance rules th ewave, and regarding this, I take time enough for smoke.
But really , I don’t have time for smoke. Sure, it’s great at the office, rigth? First of all , it takes you away from your desk, which is always the right choice. You learn more things about your particular business rthatn a bazillion board meetings by simply going outside and , in the designated or naturally selected smoking area, talking to your co-workers about what, if anything, exactly, is going on inside. There is the downside to this, though. Since in at least your acre of the international harvester cube farm, nothing at all is going on at that particular moment. The rationalikst in me might argue, however, that iI do my best work at that moment, blowing out smmmoke and meditating on what I should write.
Once, I meditated on how much time I spent smoking while at work at various magazines and newspapers, at how that might, in fact, be the reason why I always feel so behind the eight ball. This study in numbers was based ona previous calculation I had done to successfully demonstrate that I was commuting about two months of 24 hour days at work each year, and as a result, I was better at getting fired from work for two months or so every few years or so in order to get that time back.
But you can’t really get the time back. Oh sure, where there is smoke, there’s hope. Yet, when you add it all up, there isn’t time enough to smoke. During an eight hour shift, for example, you mightg spend 15 minutes out at each hour smoking. So, that’s two hours of each day in a board meeting, and if you have an actual board meeting, then you are really behind the eight ball.
Since the eight ball is round as the black earth, I think, then the final question we have to ask this orb is why, why o why, Gaia, did you put the first bidi cigarette in my hands? Was it to write this essay? Was it because I sought out the power of the goddess in numerous ways, and that was the highway, that toke was the road? Of course.
Now, I have nothing against old people. In fact, based on this memo, I would say I plan on being one, too. As I sit around at coffeehouses, the enigmatic fool blowing blue smoke out like a prayer, one of my favorite things to do is look at the old couples with their New York Times and sweet drinks and little poodles barking at passersby, relaxed in a day-long pose, discussing the possible right words for the crossword puzzle, acting like they have nothing but time on their hands . . . well, the thought occurs to me: That’s what I want.
For a time, thinking about the toothless merchant marine non-smoker, I had determined maybe we will all be better off getting a loan for $40,000 and spending it all on cigarettes for the next 10 years. Because as the Bush regime exacts the principle that vengeance is hip in the new century, I figure that is all we, as a people, have left. Especially if the porpoise doesn’t turn into a torpedo to kill the assholes, especially if the assholes rule the waves from port to port, especially if the people of the Third World replace their woodfires with Bunsen burners, especially if everyone is cowed, out of fear of being a traitor, to oppose this war, especially if the doomed supply-si(?) refuse to turn their swords into ploughshares, especially if Native Americans fail to remember their roots, their language, their legacy of communion with the earth, especially if somebody doesn’t decide, including all arrogant bastards here in America, that the world would be just as safer, if not safer, if it didn’t impose democracy--a beautiful ? euphemism ? by for corporate greed and social darwinism and conspicuous consumption. But our arrogance rules th ewave, and regarding this, I take time enough for smoke.
But really , I don’t have time for smoke. Sure, it’s great at the office, rigth? First of all , it takes you away from your desk, which is always the right choice. You learn more things about your particular business rthatn a bazillion board meetings by simply going outside and , in the designated or naturally selected smoking area, talking to your co-workers about what, if anything, exactly, is going on inside. There is the downside to this, though. Since in at least your acre of the international harvester cube farm, nothing at all is going on at that particular moment. The rationalikst in me might argue, however, that iI do my best work at that moment, blowing out smmmoke and meditating on what I should write.
Once, I meditated on how much time I spent smoking while at work at various magazines and newspapers, at how that might, in fact, be the reason why I always feel so behind the eight ball. This study in numbers was based ona previous calculation I had done to successfully demonstrate that I was commuting about two months of 24 hour days at work each year, and as a result, I was better at getting fired from work for two months or so every few years or so in order to get that time back.
But you can’t really get the time back. Oh sure, where there is smoke, there’s hope. Yet, when you add it all up, there isn’t time enough to smoke. During an eight hour shift, for example, you mightg spend 15 minutes out at each hour smoking. So, that’s two hours of each day in a board meeting, and if you have an actual board meeting, then you are really behind the eight ball.
Since the eight ball is round as the black earth, I think, then the final question we have to ask this orb is why, why o why, Gaia, did you put the first bidi cigarette in my hands? Was it to write this essay? Was it because I sought out the power of the goddess in numerous ways, and that was the highway, that toke was the road? Of course.
posted by Unknown at 5:16 AM
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