(para-excerpty-type thing from Doctor Rocker, chapter four- or five-ish)
I live in a so-called free country. One that’s building walls. Freedom, salvation, happiness; if you like spoon-fed or boot-fed, we got some for you. I vote: red; blue; or null. Checkboxes for Checkbox Freedom. It’s a coast-to-coast company store and asylum. It’s a pretty wacky place. I love it. I don’t know about free but I’m reminded often enough that I’m lucky to be here. I pledge allegiance to a flag (which, like a word, any and every word, is a symbol) and to the republic for which the symbol stands, though no one can really tell me what a republic is or imagine what it could be because no one seems to be working on it any more. Are there any great observers left to observe The Great Experiment? Are there any great conversationalists in The Great Conversation any more? Where is Everyone? Because I brought coffee. I came to get down. I hope y’all went somewhere for donuts. Otherwise I’ve got the wrong table, I’m in the wrong room or got the wrong Time. There’s no conversation around here unless it’s of the new iPhone specs, or what color sneakers to buy next, what odds to bet on the big game, or the best buy on toilet paper or ammo, or what tires to run on Sunday or what phucking wheels to put on your truck. Some conversation, but it didn’t even last halfa cuppa. And now I’m really hungry and amped up and I want to breakfast. Thank goodness for all the drive-throughs and truck stops and the serendipity of a squeaky clean and shiny taco truck rolling up alongside.