the void
A friend of mine emailed me from Vegas and was telling me how unfortunate it was, watching the tourists cavort on the strip. Drunk and stupid and littering the streets. He said it reminded him of that spot by voodoo doughnuts where people congregate and whoop it up after the clubs close. Oblivious, I think he called them. I told him this:
Sometimes when I see people like you describe, I hate them. Not because they are oblivious. Because they’re really phony.
I like to drink. Beer, or sometimes a small batch bourbon. But I don’t whoop in the street, throw up on the curb or cry with abandon under the streetlight. Well, I probably do all of those things, but I do them in my home.
And I have never before lived in place where people got tattoos just to get them.
When I lived in the Midwest, people got tattoos because they meant something. To remember a beloved parent. Commemorate a lost brother. Celebrate the birth of a child. Here, a hallmark of the creative class is getting tattoos just because they’re pretty. An act of defiance as meaningful as working in a coffee shop and telling people that you’re an artist.
In forty years, will they be wiping the crumbs from the counter of the nursing home when someone notices their demarcation? And will they say: I worked in a coffee shop? Or will they say: I was an artist? Will they still believe it? Or will the inaction have finally sunk in?
I love humanity. I just hate people.
I think Linus said that.
Sometimes when I see people like you describe, I hate them. Not because they are oblivious. Because they’re really phony.
I like to drink. Beer, or sometimes a small batch bourbon. But I don’t whoop in the street, throw up on the curb or cry with abandon under the streetlight. Well, I probably do all of those things, but I do them in my home.
And I have never before lived in place where people got tattoos just to get them.
When I lived in the Midwest, people got tattoos because they meant something. To remember a beloved parent. Commemorate a lost brother. Celebrate the birth of a child. Here, a hallmark of the creative class is getting tattoos just because they’re pretty. An act of defiance as meaningful as working in a coffee shop and telling people that you’re an artist.
In forty years, will they be wiping the crumbs from the counter of the nursing home when someone notices their demarcation? And will they say: I worked in a coffee shop? Or will they say: I was an artist? Will they still believe it? Or will the inaction have finally sunk in?
I love humanity. I just hate people.
I think Linus said that.
Comments