Two things that I feel silly for being afraid of

1. People hearing me fart in the bathroom at work.

I really don't need to be afraid of this, but I am. I get so embarassed. I clench my cheeks and hope nothing squeaks out. Hopefully one of these days I'll work up the nerve to let a nice big froggy gurgler loose right when the boss is pissing in the urinal next to me.

2. Boogers in my nose.

What if someone saw me with a booger hanging out of my nose? I'd never be cool again. Oh wait, nobody thinks I'm cool anyways. Who the hell cares about a few bats in the belfry? Just scoop 'em out and go about your business.

The Fart Police

The Fart Police don't bust you for farting. They forcibly fart on people who richly deserve it. They'd have a lot of work to do here in San Fran.

There was the mother and her stupid kids on the train the other day. She kept screaming at them and they kept screaming back, fighting with each other and bumping into other people on the crowded N-Judah. That was a job for the fart police. I could see them getting on the train, handcuffing the woman and farting right into her nostrils. Her kids probably didn't deserve a full blast but they still would have gotten a little squirt.

I'd also like to see some of the obnoxious, angry homeless fuckheads around this town get farted on. Most homeless people are peaceful. Some are downright charming. I'm talking about the mean ones who yell at you when you don't give them money. I am trying to use my time on Earth to live and further the happiness of all mankind. Please do not hate me because I buy clothes from the thrift store slightly more often than you do. If you give me any shit, then splat! You're going to get beefed on.

It seems like there's a lot of angry black people here, far more so than down in SoCal. Of course there seems to be something mighty suspicious about the Oakland/SF disparity. It's hard not to imagine that some form of segregation is at work in the Yay Area. But I'm sorry Mr. Hustla, I am not "the man". I was not born here and I will not live out the rest of my life here. I am not the reason your life sucks. I am cool with people. If you give me a hard time, the Fart Police will find you and you will inhale shit air. At this point I feel like I should mention all of the white people who'd get farted on too; there's a lot of them. But the truth is I don't usually concentrate on black and white and red and brown and all of those other inaccurate melatonin-based labels. I only mention angry black folks because I'd never seen anything quite like it until I moved here. Witness my disillusionment.

The same goes for angry homos. I am not the jock who picked on you in high school. I absolutely do not give a shit about what you do with your cock or your pussy so please, leave me the fuck out of it. Or the Fart Police will come to your circuit party.

And last but certainly not least, I would unleash the Fart Police on any self-righteous asshole who thinks I'm a homophobic racist because I get annoyed by stupid people of every ethnicity, sexual orientation, and social class. So just to be a good sport, I'd also have them fart on the CEOs of every credit card company.

I play video games in my head with fucking mack trucks!

I was driving home from practice today, and was heading towards the freeway. As I chose my lane, I looked in the rear view mirror. Mack truck. I looked forward, and saw that if I took the left lane, and he the right, we would successfully fill up the turn lanes perfectly.

Look, I saw my opportunity and took it. I played tetris with the world.


I think this is just one more example I can give when I explain my "interstate 15" tattoo.

For once, I agree with the Vatican

I wasn't even aware that the Catholic church was officially against capital punishment- haw haw! Go figure! Hoo-boy. Times sure have changed.

Anyhow, check this shit out:

"An execution is always tragic news, reason for sadness, even in the case of a person who is guilty of grave crimes," the Holy See's spokesman, Rev. Federico Lombardi, said in a statement released by the Vatican press office.

Earlier in the morning, Lombardi made similar comments on Vatican Radio.

"The position of the Catholic Church — against the death penalty — has been reiterated many times," the spokesman said in the statement, referring to the Vatican's overall opposition to capital punishment.

"Killing the guilty one is not the way to rebuild justice and reconcile society," the spokesman said. "On the contrary, there is the risk that the spirit of revenge is fueled and that the seeds of new violence are sown."

In other words, capital punishment is UN-PIG. I couldn't agree with you more, Reverend.

Duty calls

Satan: Tony.

Tony: Umm....yes?

Satan: It's Satan. You know tom, don't you?

Tony: Tom? Sure. Why?

Satan: Well, I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you. I need-

Tony: Well that's rude.

Satan: What?

Tony: You didn't even give me a chance to consider whether or not I should help you out, before you start blathering about what you need! I hate that!

Satan: So sue me. I'm Satan.

Tony: Fair enough. Continue.

Satan: It's just that lately, he keeps complaining about his life, hee-hawing about this or that. It's like he wants me to solve all his problems! I mean, on one hand, he's giving me the best press I've had in years, but then again, it's just not my gig! I don't help, I hinder!

Tony: So you're saying you don't want to help.

Satan: Not quite. I feel that I've helped too much already, and besides, I need to get back on track with my "buy your soul" shtick. Any ideas for some openers next time I see him?

Tony: Well, why should I help? I mean, before you came along, I was Tom's go-to guy for lifes little problems. What's in it for me?

Satan: Hows about this huge bag of weed?

Tony: Awesome! I say offer him infinite volume. That'll get him interested. If not, try the weed.

Satan: HahahahahahHahahaha! Jokes on you! That weed is cursed!

Tony: Weed's weed. Fuck you.

Satan: Awwwww......

Tune in next time for a careful analysis of my motivations in "Am I Lazy"!

Homeless, but not pornless.

I'm riding the trolley this morning, and as we pull away from the civic center, I see a man walking down the sidewalk, with an optimistic rythym to his walk. Obviously homeless, he wore a slightly dirty beanie, topped with a fitted baseball cap stylistically cocked to the side, all the while precariously hanging on his head. His mouth was a jokers smile, held in company with a cigarette that wasn't daring to become any shorter. he looked relatively healthy for his economic state. A few sweatshirts found their way under a few more coats, and I couldn't help but feel a bit jealous of how warm he must be under all that. Numerous pairs of pants didn't keep him from displaying white underwear, and only about half of the pants were anywhere near the waist. The most stunning detail, however, was his reading material. he had what, at a moments notice I could only deduce as a "cheri"(a particularly middle of the road porno mag, nowhere as good as "score") folded cover in, so that anyone seeing either side was gifted to a viewing of semen covered pussy, or face. He also had a cd player in the same hand, but that seemed to pale in comparison. He kinda looked like flava flav. Public enemy is coming to the house of blues. I kinda wanna go, but I also know I'll wanna leave right after I get there, cause I feel anxious in public places where I know few people.

San Francisco Moment #4

Sometimes when I ride the N car in the mornings there's a guy on there with Down's syndrome. He's often interested in one of the ladies on the rain and will strike up a pleasant, boring conversation. One morning I saw him trying to talk to a young lady seated near one of the doors. Then a rough, really down on his luck Farmer John looking homeless guy sits down next to the girl. It's about all she can take. After a few seconds she gets up and hurries to the other side of the car. A beat goes by before the guy who was sitting next to her looks up and says to the homeless guy, "Jesus dude, take a bath!", then walks off to the other side of the train. The homeless guys mumbles a few disparaging, unintelligible remarks to himself and settles in for the ride. Another beat goes by and he notices the guy with Down's syndrome.

"You ever take an I.Q. test?" the homeless guy asks the guy with Down's syndrome.

"Shut up!" says the Down's syndrome guy. "I'll slap your mouth!" The homeless guy mutters a few more disparaging, unintelligle remarks, this time with a smile on his face. He gets off at the next stop, the guy with Down's syndrome one stop later.

I turn to the lady sitting next to me. "Man," I said, "That was something. I just watched that situation go from bad to worse." The lady looked at me. She nodded her head and smiled. She still had her headphones in.

Our gay cats

I've watched an interesting thing unravel for the past few months: my cats' burgeoning homosexuality. I never thought I'd be the proud father of two gay cats, but then again I never thought I'd one day hold degrees in music and French and work for a life insurance company.

I've left them no alternative. For better or worse, they're indoor cats. They only have each other. And Cutus... Cutus was clearly taken away from his mother too early. He also looks and acts like a runt: awkward, clumsy, badly proportioned, his face permanently plastered with a look that is equal parts vague fear and profound bewilderment.

One evening, Cutus began sucking on Army's mantits. It was unexpected and unnerving. The loud, incessant slurping sound was the most disturbing part of it. Once we got used to it, only the slurping continued to bother us. On a moral and ethical level it's still alright wth me, it just pisses me off when it's so loud it wakes me up out of a dead sleep.

An open letter to Taylor Rain and Lexington Steele

Hi guys,

You two are like, my favorite pornstars in the whole world. I was wondering if maybe you'd like to come and have sex at my next birthday party? I mean shit, I already got a drunken mobility scooter ride for my birthday this year- where the hell do I go from there? The only thing I can think of to top this year's celebration is a kickass house party feature a live performance by the porn industry's two brightest stars. Of course this wouldn't be a money-making venture on my part. It's just that you both seem to exemplify the good qualities about porn: your partners always seem to have a good time, you give believable performaces, and you push the sexual envelope. Perhaps in the future we'll see sex in movies as frequently as it happens in real life. In the meantime, keep making that great porn and remember: you have the power to make a young man's dreams come true.

Thank you,
Tom Amans

Happy Birthday to Me

I think, as a b'day present to myself, I'm going to kick everyone else off of this blog. No one contributes anymore anyways. Hell, I don't think anyone even reads it. Baron von Puerco may have been here a while ago, but he's in France trying to get back together with an old girlfriend, so fuck him. I'm jealous about the France part.

But that's not half as fun as the birthday present Kendra's going to get me. You know those motorized cart-thingies that really fat old people ride around on at the grocery store? I believe two of the brand names for them are Amigo and Rascal. They rent them by the hour down at Fisherman's Wharf. I've asked Kendra to get me a fifth of good bourbon and one of those carts for a few hours.

Pictures will follow.

Lord Nasty - R.I.P.

Lord Nasty is dead. The band, not the singer. Last month we had a good show up in his hometown of Ukiah. A couple of bands rented out a hall and hired us on as headliners, since Lord Nasty has something of a following up there. It was an all ages show and the kids loved it. The Lord came out in his choir robe and they started bowing down to him. They were bumping and grinding through the whole show, even made us play an encore. Yeah.

Last Monday I was supposed to play my first show in the city with them. Lord Nasty never got on the Greyhound bus from Ukiah. He didn't even call anyone to say he wasn't going to show up. Instead he left a message on his answering machine saying that he had renounced Lord Nasty and the past nine years of filth that had been spread in his name. Singing absurd, XXX-rated lyrics was no way to thank God after surviving a near-death experience. Apparently he has some issues.

So that's it. You can still download the tunes on myspace. Oh well. Us survivors might start a funk band called "Astroglyde". We'll see.

San Francisco Moment #2

I caught the N-Judah heading towards downtown. I didn't even see the guy when I first got on. I was standing up reading my newspaper and I felt "the stare". The guy was about two feet in front of me and the train was crowded. I looked up and saw him looking right back at me. Rough looking, obviously homeless. "How ya doin?" I asked. No reply. He looked away. A good ten seconds later he says "Fine, thanks." Then he starts singing metal tunes. I couldn't tell you exactly what he sang but I knew by the high-pitched delivery and fantastic lyrics that it was 80s hair metal. He went off for a good five minutes or so, looking at people as he sang and gestured. Like I said, it was a crowded train, but people still found space to move away from him.

He kept looking at me while he was singing, so during a pause I asked him if he knew any Judas Priest. He hesitated. "You know," I said, "Hellbent, hellbent for leather!" That was all it took. For the rest of the ride downtown it was all about JP. Judas motherfuckin Priest.

About halfway through "Breakin the Law" he paused and a look of great pain came over his face. It was emotional pain, like he was going to start crying or something. "I can't..." he said, "I can't... No. No I can't." Look of pain again. "That's why I'm gonna drink this." And with that he pulled a tall can from his coat pocket and took a swig. Then he went right back into it. People kept moving and looking away. I did the only thing a person can do when a sad nutty drunk guy is singing you Judas Priest all the way to work on a Tuesday morning- I banged my head right along with him.

San Francisco Moment #1

I am currently really really pissed off at Earthlink. I'm not going to get into it here. I was on a payphone attempting to convince Earthlink to stop taking my money and not providing me with phone service. This homeless-looking black guy walks up to me with a Fex Ex package under his arm. I notice him trying to get my attention and when I look at him he gestures to me. "Hold on," I say to the Earthlink representative. "What do you need?" I ask the guy with the package.
"You wan' buy this?" he asks me in a drunken, slurred voice.
"Um, no," I say.
He gives me a dirty look and then, realizing the utter, absolute stupidity of what he's proposing, his face goes blank and he walks away. Yes that's right dude. You are an asshole. You got mad at me because I didn't want to pay you money for a stolen FedEx mystery package. Sure there could have been something good in there. There could have been a million dollars in there but I will never know. No thanks, fuckface.

Weedy Fun

I walked in the front door and to my right there was a one-way mirror. I slipped the piece of paper that the physician had given me into the slit at the bottom of the mirror and someone on the other side took it. After a few seconds a friendly-sounding voice asked, "Is this your first time here?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Come on in," it said.

I walked into a small lobby and down two flights of stairs to another door. On this second door someone had written the words "Welcome to Heaven". I rung a doorbell and was buzzed in. I stepped into a typical stoner lounge area, with couches and chairs and tables upon which rested several large glass bongs. I could hear reggae in the background. I walked up to the counter and was shown all of the merchandise, informed of the differences between indica and sativa, and given a free bottle of water.

It reminded me of the coffeeshops I've visited in Amsterdam. There are, however, a few differences between buying legal weed in San Francisco and buying legal weed in Amsterdam. One difference, which struck me as soon as I got to the counter, was the selection. There were many different kinds of weed, brands if you will, of varying degrees of potency, as well as all sorts of hash and baked goodies. But then there was also the hash oil and the hash honey and the hash ice cream and the hash oil lollipops and the hybrid plants for sale. And the kief. Sweet precious kief.

Although Europe has it's version of the pothead, it seems to me that Americans take their smoking to a higher level of indulgence (or ridiculousness, depending on your opinion). I think part of this is simply because WE LIKE BIG THINGS, and when we do things, WE LIKE TO DO THINGS BIG. And QUICK. Why waste time rolling a joint every time you wanna smoke pot when you can just pack the four-footer, take a rip, and get ten times higher? In America, it seems, the tendency among most stoners is to smoke until you trip the fuck out.

The second difference involves what you have to do to get legal weed. In Amsterdam, you walk into a coffeeshop and buy as much as you want. In San Francisco, it seems to be tied to the medical profession. To get a medical approval for cannabis, I went into the office of a doctor who specializes in medical marijuana evaluations and complained of ongoing shoulder pain from a motorcycle accident I was in five years ago. It really does still hurt, which I thought would justify me becoming righteously indignant if accused of trying to con my way into legal weed. Since I hadn't been seen by a doctor for my medical problem for over three years, I would only be getting a three-month card and a referral to a local chiropractor. After I saw the chiropractor I could come back and be "re-evaluated" for no additional fee.

Wait a minute here- Are the guys who run the medical profession a bit smarter than we think? Could they really have convinced big government to look the other way for the sake of making everyone A LOT OF MONEY?

And yet, despite this vast socio-political conundrum, pot dispensaries in SF are pretty sweet.

Hypocritical Pigs

"Hey baby. My names Corrine. I checked out your profile and you are SOOOOOOOO hawt. If you want you can check out my page. Or you can visit my website to see naughty pics that myspace won't let me post."

Anybody who has a Myspace account has received a message like the one above. Similarly, anybody who has an e-mail account has received porno-spam. Hell, even our e-mail account here at work harbors larger penis ads and whatnot. The point being: everyone is bombarded with this shit all the time.

Being completely comfortable with my piggery, I'm perfectly willing to admit that I surf my way over to these sites on occasion- just to check out the goods. Well, while I was staring at "Corrine's" ass and willing the lump in my pants not to stir too magnificently, I began to wonder, What Would Jesus Do? Seriously.

It's common knowledge that I'm supposed to believe some dude, who was also God, lived about 2000 years ago in the Middle East. He did a bunch of stuff and then got nailed to a cross because I'm an asshole- or something like that. All of that is a bit difficult for me to swallow. But what I find absolutely impossible to swallow is the idea that Jesus, a man-god, would not also appreciate Corrine's nice ass. I find it even more impossible to believe that Jesus' little followers do not gawk at Corrine's rounded rump. Oh! but they'll claim they don't.

It's no secret that most Christians are raised to hate and fear sex. Who else could create all those wonderfully painful and embarassing chastity devices from the Middle Ages on but devout Christians? Who else would blame the fall of the American Empire on short skirts and big tits but Christians? Who else but loving, forgiving Christians would have the audacity to suggest that the "sanctity of marriage" and the "future of the family" are in jeopardy because dudes who put it in each others' butts want to get married? And who do you think the majority of people furtively stroking their respective naughty bits to Corrine's junk and other porn are? My guess: Christians.

Yes, Jeezo-boy. I know you jack off. You know how I know you jack off? Because you're a strapping young male in the prime of your life. You're horny and virile. And since you've been trained to hate women and fear sex, you're only outlet is to spank it to BangBus. While I might be the epitome of everything you are trained to think of as evil, I do have at least one thing over you. I don't have to feel guilty when I spank the monkey. I like women. I find them quite attractive and stimulating in many ways. On occasion, I even talk to them as if they were my equals. Then I spank it to the thought of doing wonderfully horrible things to them in all sorts of exotic positions. Some of them have even let me live out my fantasies in the flesh.

My point being, don't try to suggest that I'm some sort of scum for touching my dick because of Corrine's beautiful booty. And don't think for a second that I believe you don't do the same thing. Live your life. I'll live mine. If you're right, I'll be judged accordingly. If I'm right, we both just die. But at least I had some fun along the way.

Play one more!!

Prayin for the Lord

The other day I woke up, ate a bagel, got in the shower, kissed my girlfriend (who I think of as my wife) goodbye, and went to work at my office job. Am I going to start coming after thirty thrusts pretty soon? Chronic bad breath? Balding? I've already begun ripping those wet, old man froggy farts. My cock leaks sometimes after I piss. Dammit.

If I have to be stuck in this con, no matter what form in which it manifests itself- chasing animals around all day so I can kill them and eat them, or working in a goddamn office building in downtown San Francisco (actually one of the softer gigs I've ever had), it's good to take advantage of the situation as much as possible. Better to encounter a busload of scared, middle class drones with a fresh high going and Eric Dolphy piped into my ears. Maybe if I could play flute, alto sax, and bass clarinet I'd avoid the rat race too… only to die alone in Germany, the cops thinking I'm a junky because of the needles I use to shoot insulin.

These two black kids are talking so loud I hear them over my headphones. No one else on the bus says anything. "You're so retarded," says one of them, "That all you say is 'Duh…' You know how retarded people say that all the time? People ask you what time it is and all you say is 'Duh…'" She pauses. "You get it?"

Everyone on the bus groans and looks away. The kids are in their own world and all the adults wish they could be too. "Wait a minute," I say, "If you have to explain it, it's probably not that funny." They both look at me, surprised. "Just say it, you know?"

They look at each other sort of wide-eyed. Then the one who wasn't talking says, "Mister, you crazy."

"Maybe," I say, laughing, "Maybe." They can tell my laugh isn't mean and they laugh too.

In all seriousness, I'm not too worried about being a total tool. I just joined a band call Lord Nasty and the Seekers of Perversion and the first practice went very well. The singer, Lord Nasty, has been in the hospital for the past two weeks with double pneumonia, but he just had his breathing tube removed and we've got gigs scheduled for next month. Who'd have thought I'd ever be prayin for the Lord and really meaning it?

The Chronicles of Phil

Egad! I have received word from the reverend! Here's what I came across in my mail the other day, faithfully transcribed and totally unedited.


HELP!

Wow, this is a lot of work, and I've only gone ten miles! It took me awhile to find the beginning of the trail, but once I latched onto the smell of fresh college grads who want to prove something with their lives, I knew I had it. I was on my way.

The beginning of the trail was peaceful and serene, just as it had always been in my dreams. My first night was also peaceful, except for the stupid animals I drove away with my latest acousti-metal guitar stylings. Yes, I have indeed brought my guitar, but I find it also comes in handy as a hatchet, more so now that I've filed the edge down with the bit of stubble I've grown over the past few weeks. My dream of the deforestation of the Appalachian trail is at hand.

The food is alright, as far as charred chipmunk and drinking my own urine goes. Speaking of food, the other day I met my first fellow hikers! I came upon their camp while they were sleeping, so I took the opportunity to raid their camp. I had all their spam and jerky snacks in my bag, and was just gaining the trust of the family dog when they woke up. Well, in times of danger, we must improvise, so I beat them to death with their own pet. I call him dillinger, and between him and my trusty axe, I always have a weapon at hand.

Well, back to the grind. I hope to make 100 miles by the end of June. How is Ray? Has he left the house yet? Say hi to Dominic for me. I think he was trying to mentally communicate with me, but he was probably just being a weirdo stoner and making shit up. Is Tom still in San Fran, or has he moved somewhere else in an effort to evade any sort of post college responsibility? Send my best.

I'm totally gay,
Phil


Wow. I'm amazed. Only 10 miles and already he seems to be having an amazing trip. Stay tuned, space piggies!

Out of body or out of mind?

So today there was a watershed moment in my existance. I left my body or at least part of my mind did and I had control over "my"* movements including going through objects. While I was able to acieve this I decided to try to contact Ray. Well I may have and possibly saw out of his eyes as I saw him dial my phone number, put the phone to his ear then my phone rang. ESP or bullshit? I can't tell you what it was but I definitely experienced something. I'll try to be as detailed and I hope, as objective as possible.

I have been reading "Cosmic Trigger 1" by Robert Anton Wilson In which the topic of drug induced illumination and ESP are widely discussed. I am fully aware that after reading about this that I could have tricked myself into thinking I left my body. I gotta tell ya, I didn't think this up. I've never done or felt this.

It started with a gravity hit. Then I put in Samuel Barber's "Agnus Dei". I always feel something inexplicable (peace?) when I listen to this particular piece of music. I called Ray, and left a message for him to call me, listened to one version of the song then skipped to the choral version got on my couch, sat cross legged and closed my eyes. I got up and walked into the music room to tidy up figuring I wasn't going to hear from Ray anytime soon. As I got to my small hallway I stopped moving just as the choir peaked and just stood there immobile for a while and saw and felt light, both in weight and feeling its presence around me. Then "I" started to move unhindered around Me, through walls, the whole deal. "I" didn't percieve anything the way I would with my 5 sences, and I remember distinctly that I could not smell anything until my experience was over. The only sounds I heard was the music in my living room and it was obvious that I was still in contact with "I". The "I" experienced things as a visual signal but nothing like normal sight. It was more warm energy than sight. I can describe the way "I" saw as translucent light, like looking at information traveling through fiber optics with out the fibers. Seeing without the use of my eyes. Everything I would normally see was there but there were flashes of images going by that seemed translucent like luminous watercolors. (damn, the rest of the post got deleted at this point so I'm re typing now, damn spacetime...) "I" assumed that these were other conversations or entities passing by as they looked like what "I" was experiencing.
I decided "I" had to try to contact Ray. "I" went up, it was that easy. Just go there. I went up through the attic, looked at my car a bit and then went over the alleyway at a height of about 25 feet or so. "I" got to Ray's went in through his celing and looked at him while just to the left side of his monitor. "I" decided to see if I could inhabit the same space as Ray and I moved over and saw through his eyes. He was playing warcraft with his character Aylcebiedes (SP?) on a green and blue level (it turns out his charachter was underwater) and "I" concentrated on getting Ray to call me. So now "I" was looking out of Ray's eyes and he got up to walk to the phone. "I" left his space briefly and returned when he picked up the phone. "I" saw him dial my phone number in great detail then he put the phone to his left ear and voila, my phone rang. "I" snapped back to my body and I simply answered the phone "Ray?" even though I knew that he was the one calling. I told him about "my" experience and everything "I" saw him do checked out.

There were lingering effects for a while after the experience. Later on Ray came over to pick up his drumset. I noticed that not only did I not need to look at the drum as I manuvered it precicely through my narrow hallway but that the drum felt lighter. After getting all the drums loaded we agreed that it was time for a smoke. I quickly thought about Kate at a sunset (I'll try to confirm if that was where she was) and then my phone rang. "This is Kate," I said". It was and I was not expecting her to call at all.

I don't know what it was that I experienced. I am skeptical, but like I said I have never done or experienced this before. It was too real an experience for me to simply discount. Answers are out of my grasp. Will they ever be within reach?

* In an attempt to describe this event I noticed that I would have to have a way to define the physical me that is consious goes to work and poops and stuff as well as the non-physical "me" that appears to be able to travel with light. For what it is worth both me and "me" were in contact the whole time even though the physical me was unable to move. They were in contact but they were also independant of each other. People have defined what I described as "me" as a soul for millennia. I make no such assumptions. I don't think I can ever again.

Say I want a revolution

Sometimes I couldn't help but think that maybe most people liked things the way they were. They didn't mind the arrangement. What else could account for things being the way they were? If enough people were of the same opinion that life basically sucked for most people most of the time, why didn't we talk about it that way at parties? At work? At school?

Jesus, why the fuck are rebels so hot? Because they're alpha, that's why! They weren't born into wealth, but the doesn't stop them from aspiring to the uppermost echelons of the human socio-economic hierarchy. The nerve!