Thursday, November 2 2000
The other night when I was walking around with Linda and Julian, we came upon a huge white Cadillac SUV. It was an appallingly over-the-top American monstrosity, a sort of big fat spaceman baseball player with a cowboy hat and alligator space boots. We looked at its bulbous ostentatious form and began to chuckle. Then Linda observed, "It can't possibly be an American's car. It must belong to some rich foreigner." So, in the only foreign accent I know how to do, I mocked, "I want it to be a SUV and I want it to be a Cadillac!" We all agreed that, even as tasteless as Americans can be, they can never quite reach the point attainable by a foreigner trying to imitate American tastelessness.
The soul-destroying influences of the irrational group-formed opinions of others persuade most people, at some point in their lives, to abandon the roles they saw for themselves in their childhoods. Why do we mow our lawns, drive big cars, and wear different clothes every day? Simply, it seems, to avoid being thought of as weird.
I started reading another book my housemate loaned me, The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.
I also took some pictures of myself. Not wanting to do just another flattering photo shoot of my face, I posed a few weird ones at the end. You might want to finish that sandwich now.
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