San Francisco, CA
Some days I'm astonished at what I've accomplished, while other days, I'm befuddled at why I haven't been thrown into jail or why I'm not lying face down in a gutter, like so many other vagrants that I see in my new city.
Crackheads aplenty are strewn in the streets of San Francisco. I often worry about how close I am to actually living in the streets. I'm not trying to be overly dramatic, but all I keep thinking about is that scene in Wall Street when Bud Fox is driving around in Gordon Gekko's limo while contemplating whether or not he has the stomach and balls to delve into insider trading and shoot angles on Wall St. to become uber-wealthy. The limo pulls up to a corner on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and two people are standing there -- a suit with a briefcase and a homeless person digging through the trash. Gordon Gekko points to both men and uses them as an example of free will vs. determinism to Bud Fox.
"You really think the difference between this guy and that guy is luck?" said Gekko before he tells his driver to pull over to let Bud out. "When it comes to money... everybody's of the same religion."
Bums. Suits. It don't matter. We all worship the all mighty dollar, well, what's left of the fiat currency that we have in our pockets. Some of my Wall St. buddies are convinced the USD is going to bust, while others think the mighty greenback will bounce back because the cabal who run the Fed won't let that happen. They'll keep printing money with Ben Bernanke's printing press, which is the exact reason why the USD is worth the same as toilet paper.
The only difference between the America in 2011 and Argentina of a decade ago -- is Ben Bernanke's printing press. Well, that and the fact we never had a soccer player who could carry Diego Maradona's sweaty socks.
Are we collectively doomed? Probably, which is the cause of the underlying layer of malaise that I can't shake. I drank through this tropical depression with rum drinks earlier in the year. I had a brief respite from doom and gloom after this summer when I miraculously walked away from a car wreck. I was so fucking lucky to be alive that my entire perspective changed, but even that fleeting moment has worn off, and now I'm back to roaming this planet with a bit of knowledge that I've been trying to share with friends for a few years now. They won't listen, and that inherently makes me sad. It's not an ego thing -- I don't get off in being listened to -- rather, a wave of melancholy washes over me because some people I love dearly refuse to wake up.
In short, I've been trying to unplug them, wake them up, and pull them out of the sheeple spiral. Alas, it's not working and I'm ready to give up trying to save everyone. The sad part is this fact -- sheep get slaughtered.
Oh well. Dennis Miller snarked it the best, "You can't save everyone, folks."
At this point, I question whether or not I can save myself. Do I even want to be saved? Should I just give up, get microchipped, and zone out in front of the boob tube while embracing Sn00ki,The Situation, and the Kardashians as my new Holy Trinity -- the almighty Lord and Savior?
Religion used to be the opiate of the masses, but now it's reality TV. I have friends in Hollyweird who write for reality TV shows. Yeah, they ain't real. Nothing is anymore, except the searing pain that rockets through my body every time I gaze out into the sea of humanity and see so much wasted potential. No wonder we're going to get stomped in the revolution. It's easy for the powers to be to pick off the troublemakers because they easily stick out as the black sheep in the ginormous fluffy, white herd.
Somedays I think about that scene from Wall Street with the suit standing on the corner with the bum and wonder if I'm headed on a path toward prosperity, or I'm headed toward the street. You'd be surprised at my answer. After all, we all worship the same religion, but then again, the Church of St. Sn00ki seems more and more appealing every day.
I might start drinking again. Heavily.