Went round to an old friend's last night for a few glasses of fermented grape. Talk turned to the global economic recession – as it does – and as gloom descended on us like a wet blanket – her brother, an economist, walked in and told us exactly how tit's up everything is:
“Chaps, secure your place in the soup queue because it's going to become a whole lot worse.”
Jesus. Pass me another glass of wine.
(Whilst pushing all thought of piano purchase to back of brain, also considering the dang thing is so out of tune, it sounds like the background accompaniment to The Ring 2. So can't even play the fucking thing right now, without making people die on the spot from aural sodomisation.)
Anyway, lest us not forget, we've managed to avoid being a part of two world wars, but if it's bad now, shit is going to hit the fan next year.
“Imagine though, “ says my friend brightly (might've been the wine), “all the hot guys that one could potentially meet in a soup queue.”
But I'm thinking, will we be able to afford shampoo? With which to wash our locks?
You're standing in the bogroll & bread line, waiting for your one ply, when Usher strolls up behind you, takes one hard look at your hair and thinks, “This economic crisis blows. This chick needs Pantene like I need my Hummer to be de-impounded right now.”
And you're thinking, “He's digging the vibe with my hair right now.”
And he's thinking, “Fuck, do I really need bogroll.”
So in light of all of this, because I'm more freaked out than the other 7 times I have received neurotic emails from my panicked mother about advising me not to buy anything ever again and aliens are going to impregnate our livestock and we're all going to die of The Clap.
...anyway, in light of this – Dad and I are taking buses around Argentina. They're cheap and cheerful...and we'll be on at least two that will run non-stop for 24 hours. Fuck, I need a new iPod battery. We're going to lose our marbles.
Heard about something rather interesting on the Net the other day, speaking of crises in general. In the States, sex offenders are, by federal law, meant to register where exactly they live at all times. For record purposes, and also for obvious reasons of safety.
Where this comes in. Say you're a yank, and you want to buy a house in Mobile, Alabama. And you have 4 kids and a golden retriever. And you want to know whether your kids can roam the streets willy-nilly safely.
Simply go to the Offender Locator website. Fuck. It's scary. You load the map, zoom into your street, and then right click the little animated bodies that pop up.
And there are shitloads.
There you might find a mug shot of a sexual offender (it's hectic), what he did exactly, and his exact address.
It's Maps gone insane, and it's a little hair raising.
For instance, I lived in Crested Butte, Colorado for a while. No sexual fuckfiends there, but go twenty clicks to the right to Gunnison and you'll find a fair few. Manhattan is littered with 'em.
On that fine note, the weather's been nice hasn't it?
