"There is something about your subversive attitude that is mocking me. Clearly my spending $300 each month on my shiny new minivan is the highest use of my income. What you're doing is telling me that I'm wasting my cash and living a lie!"

T


his morning after my night shift, I took advantage of the fact that my bank was at long last open for business, cashing a portion of my not-inconsequential paycheck. Then I headed out on my bike on a mission to buy some memory for my emerging Pentium. At Barracks Road's Entré Computer, 16 megabyte SIMMs were $99, substantially more than I wanted to spend, so I continued up the Georgetown Road (which runs parallel to 29 North but is ever so much more cyclist-friendly). When I could go no further, I continued on the sidewalks that run along the congested asphalt monstrosity of 29 North.

Has anyone ever taken the time to consider the extent to which the highway industry has America over a barrel? When there isn't enough traffic and enough economic growth, the solution (gleefully proposed by politicians that you elect) is typically "bigger better roads." And when there is too much traffic and too much economic growth, the solution (again gleefully proposed by politicians that you re-elect) is also "bigger better roads." The land has been sculpted and reformatted with only the automobile in mind. Those of us who shout "fuck you!" at the dominant paradigm, refusing to drive when there are so many healthier, more interesting alternatives, risk being thought odd even in "alternative" circles. We risk more than that; the cars have an attitude of belligerence as they pass, as if to say "There is something about your subversive attitude that is mocking me. Clearly my spending $300 each month on my shiny new minivan is the highest use of my income. What you're doing is telling me that I'm wasting my cash and living a lie!" And I am telling them that. When I'm not on my bike, I'm in my $200 Dodge Dart, which, while accepting the hegemony of asphalt, clearly exposes the fallacy of the cultdom of new-car excess.

My guess is that a deep discount place like Walmart doesn't have the staff to track the volatile SIMM market, and they'd surely sell SIMMs cheaper if they only knew how cheap they actually are.

Back to 29 North. I think the rightmost lanes both north and southbound should be converted into bike lanes. I think the parking lots of all the businesses on 29 North should be shrunk by half and replaced with anything more natural. I don't think this is too much to ask. As it exists now, 29 North is perhaps Charlottesville's single biggest embarrassment.

SIMMs at Walmart cost the same as those at the much higher-class Entré Computer. My guess is that a deep discount place like Walmart doesn't have the staff to track the volatile SIMM market, and they'd surely sell SIMMs cheaper if they only knew how cheap they actually are. I headed south again and ended up getting 16 megabytes (in two 72 pin SIMMs) for something over 80 dollars, which wasn't a bad deal.

Back at Kappa Mutha Fucka, I installed the SIMMs, but couldn't get the motherboard to boot beyond the successful memory test. My guess is that it is defective; my co-worker Steve, who is trying to sell the motherboard to me, reported similar problems but attributed them to a potentially faulty Pentium.

It was one in the afternoon before I finally got some sleep, but I only slept for two hours. Now I'm at UVA's Olssen Hall, sipping on vodkagin. Ah, the life.

Actually, I meant to say "gintea," which is a teabag steeped in gin, served on ice. Usually I use vodka as the fluid in this beverage, making vodkatea, but there's a hell of a lot of gin still kicking around Kappa Mutha Fucka, and its highest use is probably not as a catalyst for the further breaking of windows.

The air turned cold and drizzly sometime during my prework nap. For the first time since Winter, I went to work in my black wool The Gap™ trench coat (the one I found in a dumpster in Oberlin during May, 1995).

---

I'd stolen an assault rifle from the Shipe's son, Charlie, and it was in the top drawer of a dresser.

R


ecently I had a interesting dream. Back at my childhood home, our traditional redneck enemies, the Shipes (who live in a trailer across the street and run a body shop - I'm absolutely serious) were instead living at the much older house of the Vesseys, about a fifth of a mile up the road. (A few months ago, the Vesseys had a fencing dispute with my folks.) With the typical spacial whimsy of dreams, my Shaque was a fresh new building on the floodplain abutting the Vessey's/Shipe's yard. An unscheduled housewarming was happening, and the Shipes were all hanging out with me in the Shaque. We were getting along with an uneasy faux-joviality, as if at any moment we'd put down our beers, pull out knives and settle old scores. I'd stolen an assault rifle from the Shipe's son, Charlie, and it was in the top drawer of a dresser. I kept fearing someone would open the drawer and see the gun. The drawer came open a little at one point, but not enough to reveal the gun.

---

Get a sense of what I was like exactly eight years ago and one year ago today.

For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?971014