I’m at the Rocket Bakery procrastinating on writing my thank-you notes for the wedding presents I received in August. (I really am grateful for the sundry kitchen appliances, picture frames, and lingerie (penis slippers included), and I hope that you all keep up the habit of giving them to me in the future. I was raised better than this, so clearly the internet with its maze of blogginess and generic facebook photographs is to blame.)
There’s a sign with pull tabs on the wall saying, “Food not bombs” which makes me think that if anything can be substituted for war—bikes not bombs, make out not war, etc.—then we all should be really too busy to wield the hand of aggression, and war would seem to be the outcome of boredom. So if someone would simply give those world leaders and charismatic terrorist aficionados something to do, the world would be a safer place.
And how about those Americans? A Newsweek came in the mail intended for a Mary Carver—I’m hoping that this is not Mitch’s way of telling me that we have a polygamous relationship; I mean, at least say it with flowers. And on the cover is this burning wad of wrinkled greasy cash and the caption: “Why Americans are still Spending Money” or something like that. What would you rather have: a stack of paper, more infested with germs than any other substance we touch, or a new lap top that’s negative point five inches thick, on which you can twiddle away your time?
If American money were more interesting or looked prettier, then maybe we wouldn’t spend it as often. Take credit cards: they are the key to unlocking possession of all sorts of things—music, clothes, books, drunkenness, travel—but if you don’t use them they’re just flat pieces of plastic with magnetic strips on the back.
Maybe if, instead of the presidents, bills had pinup girls on them or clues to a great mystery, we wouldn’t trade them in for cool stuff as much.
Would a dragon sit on a cache of Washingtons and Lincolns and tarnished old nickels and little numbers from account balances? Two words: ugly. flammable. You see what happens, Mary?