I got to wondering about Biz, lately -- (actual business, not this guy), I considered climate change, the universe, and possible nuclear annihilation.

​...Any way I decided that if one could endure this entire video,  That we'd all be fine.

​We just need the right protective pendant necklace.

​Anyway, Good Luck.

QUOTE: “Every single time I ride my gravel bike past a group of hikers, one of them will ask about my “hybrid” road bike with fat tyres. They ask because they think it’s cool as hell that I can ride a bike from my house to the trail. But “serious” cyclists don’t see the term hybrid that way.
We’ve valorized bikes often favoured by beginners as lesser than. Well, it’s time to put that to bed, and if it takes a $2,600/£2,600 flat bar gravel bike to do that, then that’s fine by me.”
-Some Dumb-shit writer from Cycling Weekly
It’s fucking hard to stand up here and cheer on my favorite “flat bar gravel bike”.
Cough! (HYBRID) Cough Cough!
It’s tough to stand in front of everyone and, behind some mental ideology your gut knows is myth, maligned and marginalized  by bad faith, piss-poor politics, and a false prophet, such as 'Grimace'.
My “Flat Bar Gravel Bike” is my best friend and I love her.  Sob, sniffle,
Absolutely Sure of my resolve and confident, of my conviction, I delve deeper into insanity every day, insisting that my “Flat Bar Gravel Bike” isn’t a “Hybrid”. …And everyone else just doesn’t understand me.
I think I’ll strap a comfort animal to the bars, and parade that shit around proclaiming adjectival injustice, and pronoun prejudice.
I had this stuffed animal as a kid — A small rabbit with soft fur and a stitched nose. I dragged it around over dirty pews and ledges, into the bathroom, and she lay with fellow dust-bunnies beneath my bunk-bed, never assigned a gender. I never wanted a stuffed bunny, but as easter faded, I thought I really loved her.  I wanted comfort, through rough patches, and something to clean, care for, and rub when I felt insecure. She was NOT a doll, but a hybrid solution to bridge the gap between my infantile need for comfort, and restless greed for acceptance, (if by a stuffed friend) -- Down the bumpy road toward adventure.  A token, I'd strapped it to my handlebars, as I practiced kick-turns, skids, and wheelies.  She was filthy, & comforting, but it was far too late for me to keep her, and  keep my peer-group..

“Man…, I’m never going to talk to those guys again.
I’m the one who got Arnold and Dave their  jobs in the first place”.  -Brad

Today I’m a “grown-up” and I’ve long forgotten when I discarded my faux comfort animal, but she taught me that make-believe works only up to the point when it no longer fits the confines of one’s cliché, and someone beats your ass for having imaginary friends.
Through the end I’m sure that I held tightly to my bunny and resolve that my aim was true, and my faith was sound and well reasoned. And when its not convenient I developed a “fuck them if they can’t understand” monologue which I'd repeated to my self (perhaps to this day), to guard against having ever been mistaken in my convictions. Of course I’m right about my politics, my faith, and my opinion., I’m always right… And Fuck Dennis Taylor
My first bike was as a Schwinn Pixie, the top tube was removable, attached at the seat collar and Headset, for quick conversion to a “Girls Model”.
My gender ambivalent two wheeler — the equal of a non-conforming Bathroom, was dark green, with scars of rust, and a rattly paint-matched chain guard.  The solvent applied white decals (complete with pin-stripe star), were near illegible.  The stripped seat-bolt was one turn away from the dark path of the vice-grip. When I outgrew the Metal Flake Green pixie, the top tube was withdrawn for my Sister’s to ride.  She would be the fifth kid to inherit my gender non-conforming bike.  I suppose you could say that resting mid-way between the Feminine pronoun, and a “Boy’s Bike” made this a Hybrid.  Someplace in the netherworld — Neither XX nor XY.  “But Serious Cyclists don’t see the term ‘Hybrid’, that way”  -Dumbass
Your Stuffed Rabbit is exactly that; A stuffed rabbit.  If you later see it zip-tied to the grille of the garbage truck, dangling from a trailer hitch, or upon your lap at the dinner table, It's a stuffed rabbit... Should you expect differing reactions, whether hanging like filthy balls from a snowy trailer-hitch?, or from the bar on your first two-wheeler -- Certainly!
..but it’s a stuffed rabbit.  Nothing will change the Rabbit's Gender into a Flat Bar Gravel Bike. No magic spell will make Grimace less creepy, and that Kid from school cannot be a TeleTubby.
Scientifically speaking, If I’d prematurely removed the top-tube from my Schwinn Pixie, then it’s gender would not have conformed to my chromosomal skew, and I may be teased, or even beaten.  And YOU should also be teased for defending what is clearly a “Hybrid”   — This are rolling upon  is most certainly NOT a “Flat Bar Gravel Bike”.  Yeeesh!

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating, that all the ludicrous pandering to pussies for non-conformity — All of our erasure of curbs, and leveling of the hills, will create that Vanilla Pudding Khaki Dockers, banner waving prejudice who’s weight becomes unbearable, who’s trajectory un-sustainable, and who’s damage to mores irreparable.  We have curbs in place so the sewerage stays in the street, and the cars off the sidewalk, and we build bridges to connect both sides of the tracks, so commerce, and continuity will persist.  Siloing every precious thought-bubble in a padded mauve comforter, will yield one singular failure… The failure to engage.

“What does little ‘XXY’ want for lunch today?” This question alone will eventually cost us trillions in mental health, confusion, suicide, listlessness, productivity, and a flat GDP.   Bygone is the day when you ate what was served, and you wore what came in a box from your wealthier cousins, and you experimented with gender rules when you hit HighSchool.
Today, without an inkling of what you may aspire to.., Everyone wants to be a fucking Teletubby.
A mountain Bike has a flat bar and knobby tires for patently obvious reasons.
A road bike has a gorgeous curved bar blending near perfect form, and function, with lithe tires.
A gravel bike is a road cyclist’s opportunity to continue where the sidewalk ends. (see also Cyclocross).
A Schwinn Pixie, works to keep you from getting your ass beat for non-conformity (when that mattered).
A Hybrid Bike is neither a Mountain Bike, nor a Road Bike, nor a Pixie. It is neither good for hills, nor for trails.  A Hybrid bike resides in the margins with your incompetent SUV, and a purple non-conformist diabetic monster.  A Hybrid generally rests in the garage 11.875 months out of the year with flat tires.
A hybrid bike is the Beige Cotton Dockers, and UnderArmour Polo shirt of the discontented comfort-class.
As a child I asked my parents, and siblings about the only un-identifiable character in the play-lot — A giant purple non-conformist called  Grimace.  Grimace was introduced in 1971, as a thieving pair of purple monster arms who drank Shakes, and stole Cheese-burgers.  Like all "Quazi-Bad-guys”, Grimace needed no gender, even when they/them moved from monster status to cheerful dolt.  Grimace became the Hybrid Bike, the Schwinn Pixie of the Play-lot. Grimace was welcoming, non-judgmental, and flat out fat, and Grimace made it OK to not give a fuck about what you looked like, or which side of the gender question you landed.  Grimace was my fucking filthy rabbit. A scape-goat.  The brunt of every joke. Fodder for fun-poking.
Grimace is your fucking hybrid bike.  Neither monster, nor angel -- Neither patron protector, nor nemesis.
Grimace rides poorly up-hill, descends like a fridge, and cannot hold a line in single-track.  Grimace laughs at all the wrong jokes, and can neither make up its mind on where to go, nor how to send it, because Grimace’s parents have been doing that for they/them for forever.
Grimace is your fucking Hybrid “Flat Bar Gravel Bike”, and Grimace will eat you one day.


​

Josh Hawley says real men value courage.                                Not many in Trump’s party clear the bar.
Reprinted with Full Credit to the Author  JOHN F. HARRIS Editor & Co-Founder of Politico 
​07/07/2022 04:30 AM EDT

Same as it ever was, same as it EVER was…
The thing about death, is that you cannot entirely die from it -- If people are still talking about you.
The Bold, may mistakenly become rock stars, perhaps unwitting (when they die), that the world was actually ending.
People used to bring flowers to the graves of long passed loved ones, grand-parents, Elvis and such, buried long in graveyards. cut splays droop in the heat, as a custodian tosses hundreds of rancid bouquets into the trash.  Today we bring flowers, pictures, protest banners and candles to makeshift vigils for those shot in schools, grocery stores, and concert venues.
Today, we remember the fallen, taken too soon by racists, maniacs, and broken teens weened on porn, processed food, Red-Bulls, Rock-Stars and first person shooter games.

Today we recognize political protest movements as nothing more than a gathering of untapped potential -- Like a street fair,  a concert event -- lolla-fucking-palooza.  We wave a banner, don a charged up T-shirt, shot-gun a half dozen piss warm beers, and march around taking awkward queues from two or three people who've read the news, and then we go home and sleep it off.

Although David Byrne would later refer to “Wartime” as a loose memoir about living in alphabet city,  — “Life During Wartime” commemorates what many listeners consider context for a middle-class apocalypse. A clear analog for humanity’s ritual homicide -- “Wartime” captures the context of a changed urban landscape, where surreality shifts from comfortable consumerism to simple survival. A napkin sketch of human-kind's ongoing fascination with destruction — Cautiously, distrustingly on the vanguard of an insurgency.
As kids, we’d practice cowering under desks well before “active shooter” became a thing — A  child's macabre preparation for that ultimate shit-storm of nuclear winter. Every cold war kid was trained to imagine themselves humming nervously, crossed-legged beneath one’s desk — followed by a brief flashing X-ray of small bones, before our bodies vaporized snugly below chrome, melamine, and melted chewing-gum.
I could count my age on two hands, when "Life During Wartime" began to play on the radio. I recall it playing from the Zenith Kitchen radio as I dissolved a packet of Kool-Aid into a cancerous plastic pitcher, pouring tepid July tap-water into Tupperware.  "Where does that Highway Lead to?" ...Melting granulated sugar with red dye number 5,  watching pale powder, turn deep crimson. Kool-Aid coated the corners before bubbling bright red staining upward into a froth.

Just like Wartime.

"Got some groceries, some peanut butter, but I -- Ain't got no records to play".
Well before MTV, We watched Cartoons, and Cronkite, as blood spilled only occasionally on TV, (always someplace else), while a soundtrack by cultural heroes named David kept time.  David Byrne, David Bowie, David Gilmour… filled in all the gaps glazed-over by TV news. With 'the Davids', we’d soon become more watchful, mindful, mournful, maudlin.
When I first heard Life During Wartime, I understood that things would change with age.  I knew right away that becoming an adult meant I’d need to pay attention to such things, (even the news), and then I stopped stirring Kool-Aid twisted the ice-cube tray, and hummed, before the song changed to something aloof by Eddie Rabbit. 
We dwell in a snow-globe, a sealed bubble where tiny figures with weighted lungs, struggle in silent scuba flitting about through downy ash in slow motion, unable to escape heavy gravity.
When we bother to tune into the drama, an oppressive atmosphere cloaks us, connects us, and prevents our free movement. Within this liquid biome, we consider our weight as war stories slow our timeline to a stand-still.  Shooters now punctuate our weeks with Silence and outrage, of what we've come to accept as normal.  With nothing more to consider than the name of some small town nobody's ever heard of  -- Before gunshots rang out. Then there is the piercing ringing, of explosions.
An atom bomb to a soundtrack of Rage, and Punk Rock. In my youth the end game was nearly never a shooting.  
Our lungs contract before we capture our first charred breath of the new air, and the smell of burnt hair.  We are all complicit in allowing this new wartime to unfold, because we teach it every day. We no longer aspire to anything more than stuff, screen-time, and virtual notoriety.  Momentary mute anguish betrays the strange context of our bullshit hindsight.  We've enabled this plague of hatred as a generation of Love gave way to callous conceit. It's noteworthy that we were always well behind the enlightened child who saw it all coming. The meek kid who communed with trees, rocks and butterflies, and who knew that so and so, was up to something shitty. It is precisely our confinement to our homes, ourselves, and our planet that's capped our ability to imagine anything more important than the self. Our shared experience which makes us human, has also hit a technical ceiling. We've run out of cloud storage -- Run out of space to express oneself in any way other than Online.
Nobody eats a meal without snapping a photo first.
No one enjoys a moment without comparing it to another's.
No human who is loved shoots people.

But do we really need to share the same world with psychopaths?

Our collective life during wartime, may seem a stale rerun. Being baptized by fire, pandemic, or a hateful shooting does not  bring out the best in people.  The adage "whatever doesn't kill you..." is an absurd nursery-rhyme scripted by those still sporting 1950's nostalgic machismo.
The Greatest Generation (the one which convinced every American male to resolve disputes with a bullet) has been long buried, along with their infantile fantasies of Bomber-Jacket Super-hero's. Their legacy however, left in its wake, the Bronson-esque bravado of a billion guns.  What fantasy fiction remains of your granddad's rusty rifle, wears a catheter bag  in a Hogan's Hero re-run sponsored by Geritol.  Today, we can be proud of the past thirty years only because we managed not to blow ourselves up yet.  The joke is that the cold war was also led with the same exuberant blunt instrument. The leading strategy for conflict resolution -- "bullet or bomb", became 80's religion to keep the masses in line.  When our fright finally shifted from fear-mongering about Bombs and Bullets to Pandemic, neither bullet nor bomb became back-seated.  We simply swallowed a full mouth-full of madness, and stocked up on N95's, Bullets, and Sniper Rifles.
It is our  unshakable connectedness in misery at times of crisis which makes us less well equipped to make good judgements.  Whatever doesn't kill you makes you more likely to give up and suffer an existential mind-fuck.  In the Eighties, when fear, loathing, and recession took a good person with it -- at least it was a quiet suicide.  Write a note, and pick your poison.
​ In Highschool, playing 8 bit video games,  Eight of my friend's Dads took their own life. Quiet and ashamed... None of them tried to take anyone with them. 
Today, the latest first person shooter Game is writ live by broken humans in small towns, as cowards spend their "final life" in a rageful suicide by cop. This is our new life during wartime.
As for my ten-year-old brain's inability to imagine what life during wartime feels like, I knew for certain that fear and the sense of being wholly changed would never leave anyone baptized by bullets and bombs.
In my cold war youth, (living under oppressive recession, failed middle-class aspirations, widespread layoffs, factory closures, and rampant suicide) -- I came to know that every day may be my final moment.  The unknowing of which made me a piss-poor planner, a worse saver, and anything but a morning person. 
It wasn’t until ’84 when  watching "Wartime"  performed in "Stop Making Sense",  would resolve two better perspectives: 1. A far better sense of what it meant to share our snow-globe with some truly talented and some truly evil fuckers. 2. Preparations for the apocalypse would be punctuated with Punk Rock to get a handle upon the color shift of a globe evolving from black-and-white, to technicolor, and then to gray.

"...And you may ask yourself.. How do I work this? 
Sewn into the seams of my messed up youth, will always be this awkward art school geek standing, shaking, wiggling, trying like a four year-old in a horror film to wake his dumb-ass parents.  They “just don’t fucking understand!” There is a Hush, of complacent comfort, of smug solace, and then the globe shatters, liquid spills from mute ears, and we hear loudly the shots, or the screaming in-bound missile.

So..., what’s about to land? — because it’s quiet now, and it's calm — As the spring breeze blows, a dog whimpers, and then… BAM! the bomb kisses the earth, and a millennial wartime struggle ensues.

There will always be War, as well as the peaceful geek who is “tapped-in” -- And this one kid knows what you are clearly missing, Overlooking, Are too stupid to notice. Being marginalized is part of the human experience, and your digital world is not full of human beings, but robots.
LOOK, MOM, DAD… the thing is… we kids have an actual idea how this goes down, and it doesn’t end well for the unadaptable. Oh, and by the way, you may want to duck right-the-fuck-now;  As stray shrapnel and mid-caliber metal riddles the stillness, all with a laugh-track, whilst you watch YouTube.

As “End of Days” soundtracks lent meaningful context to my fucked up youth, I emerged in the world wholly unprepared for digital hijack. I feel it is OK to tap one point.  Your digital meta-verse, has one glaring red flaw, which Andy Warhol may have also promoted.  Wherever he heard it first..., "Fifteen Minutes of Fame" became (a)merican entitlement -- But this surely is not your fucking birthright.
Ever since the 80's, the digital world has taught humans to claw their way up the belt of some moving walkway, promoting the promise of (P)opularity for EVERYONE.  Even if your mom didn't groom you for beauty pageants, and even if you were never popular in school; your meta-verse seemed to promise you a shot.  Quick math reveals that most of you  poor fuckers will need to sit on your hands, because there are not enough minutes in the day for every bench-warmer to feel special.  We are not only out of cloud storage, and I.P. addresses, ...but we are also out of time.

You are simply not entitled to becoming famous.  Not by your Instagram, Your Reddit post -- Not by your food photo, not by the pen, nor the sword, nor the bullet or bomb.

It is precisely when we feel entitled that we behave badly.  It seems some internal clock ticks away, while others appear ahead of us on the meta-beltway, and so (when time seems to run out), we act badly. Whether it is for a  lack of feeling special, or by false exceptionalism --This dead-end is what kills.
Punk rock, like D&D and other analog games, taught generations of disenfranchised kids to make believe for a bit.  Whether slamming into each-other in the mosh pit, or re-inventing themselves as a fictional bad-ass, the fact that we the ordinary are mired in mediocrity, can be ameliorated with a touch of fiction.  One can slam into a few hundred angry youth without bloodshed, without a single bullet, and without the fictional promise of punching above your pay-grade.  It's OK to be ordinary, to feel un-entitled, and to rest a while offline.

It may be less important to tap the artist’s recollection of a song’s origin, and far more helpful to use great sound tracks for reflection as we would any classic poem, or painting — When pen hits paper it is generally the initial impact which becomes the full measure of meaning — And not the talk-show interview. Given a long enough time-scale, a great song will outlive whatever the artist told the press it meant in 1978.
Successful people don't share every nuance of their private lives in hopes that someone will pay them attention. Great artists don’t spoil their story recounting every detail -- But by sketching broad strokes styling a background often without an eraser, or edits. New applicants discover seemingly by mistake,  that the rule book for human behavior is rife with rewrites and plagiarism. I've argued that there are far too many people on earth and far too few human beings.  But I know for certain that becoming a human requires being present for yourself, and for others.
If "Life During Wartime", became an 'adultish' anthem for war-orientation, Then "Once in a Life-time" defines the malaise of three decades of America's blahs.  "And you may ask yourself -- Where is that large automobile?" 
As witness to four decades of American un-exceptionalism, we can confirm our pretense of world leadership, is at best trial and error.
​
David Byrne explained his lyrics for "Once in a Lifetime": denying that they address yuppie greed... He said this song was about the unconscious: (as adults) "We operate half-awake or on autopilot and end up, whatever, with a house and family and job and everything else, and we haven't really stopped to ask ourselves, 'How did I get here?"

During your wartime life, you can actually die, and have no fucking idea how you got there, nor what the fuck just hit you, and then… it's silent -- So it's probably best to make an effort to become well remembered.

Today our favorite Dr. Evil, Vlad. (The-Impaler) Putin, said that E.U. Nations who now consider fast-tracking NATO membership "will be sorry". This strong threat coming from Russia's Dr. Crazy-kins... who previously said that he was invading Ukraine "until they pinky-promised they'd not join that damn Euro-club", seems to be a tad bit un-trustworthy.
...And yet they did..., Ukraine actually capitulated to Dr. Evil, saying they'd consider neutrality, if he'd only stop killing women and kids, but ______SIGH!_________ he went ahead and destroyed their schools and hospitals anyway. In light of such a dastardly dickhead's penchant for double-cross, I think it helps to remember that some jagoffs actually don't do what they promise, and they should not be taken at their word. In spite of all the bravado, and cold hearted stares, Putin is just like that other petulant childish dictator, Mr. Trumpistan. They are both their own sarcastic caricature.
As with any make-shift pact from my sordid youth, where a group of us kids formed an alliance, in-spite of a few hold-outs -- We'd later offer even the less willing, (the less desirable kids) membership, because -- Well... what good is it to go it alone?
Should The Norse Gods join Belarusian Lukashenko and Kazakhstan in the CSTO and band together with Russia against the evil aggressor USA?, or should they perhaps consider Joining a knitting circle? Ask yourselves, “What have the CSTO done for us lately?”
So Mr. Vlad. (The Impaler) Putin, what do you say...?, Don't you want to just lay down your fidgety arms and sign up with the NATO club? We have, um like this really great group, where we promise to look after each-other, even those with different fashion and alphabets -- And we all share cool gadgets, secrets, code-words, and handshakes & such. We even have meetings in cool castles, where we talk about the other un-cool kids, and sip bitter espresso.

Nah!... you Mr. Putin actually may not be cool enough.

Now all eyes are on Sweden and Finland, (and lord knows they are sexy)... As the Russian Fascists call it a "Grave Mistake" to consider membership to the cool-kid alliance, NATO promises to protect its members from bullies. Seems like a swell plan, if a bit late in the making, right? The laughable truth of this is that because a double-crosser (Putin) -- is never taken at their word -- What would the threat be to stylish Vikings to join the Klub?  To saber rattle two Nordic Power Players, into submission under threat of punishment, is childish, even pedantic. What's Next? the threat of some "double super secret grounding" where we are forced to stay home and watch Fox News?, or worse our own racist Senate show up to take credit for diplomacy?
Look... Because The Evil Empire is still wreaking wanton destruction across Ukraine, in an effort to preclude them from joining "the gang", is it any wonder that they would reject any new "OR ELSE" threat, as meaningless, and without condition. Yes!... And Why not join NATO Now?  Shit, we (the other evil empire) may even open the club to Asia, India, and African nations, as long as they pay the rent.
Welcome Sweden, and Finland and Ukraine to our little elitist club. And don't worry about the dues and uniform just yet... Or that bully Vladimir, because he is going to do whatever the fuck he wants anyway. So, you may just as well enjoy some cool-ass code-rings & cocktails with we Kool kids, before the Nukes fly.

As with my argument for M.A.D. (Mutually Assured Destruction), When the outcome is always the same, and the threats never match the behavior you are trying to control... then the persuasion will become a bit less of a promise, and more of request. 

​So again, Fuck Putin!, C'mon -- it's time to join the cool kid gang, and you are so missing out.

You are creating the future whether you participate deliberately, or not.
Should we fear the apathy of our youth coming up in current gray-water morality? Tens of millions of America’s youthful passengers wholly unaware that their world is moving forward by bus, driven by senile grandparents. Pajama clad children in faux-fur slippers don’t  pay the fare as they board the bus — they simply tapped their parents chip card, and yawned... Put out, for having to get off the couch... Meanwhile --
Mother Earth, spins alone like a ball on the fingertip of an elderly athlete.
Our ‘Has-Been’ Atlas in baggy khakis (it turns out) dribbling more in his pants than on the court remains devoted to a tribal fan-club, working only to ‘Maintain the shine on his loafers and hanger's-on. Isn't it always the old guy reminiscing past conquest, who is wholly un-relatable to our youth.  Please do not look up!, because this guy’s blue ball is about to drop. (Your earth could of course be a disc, if you'd prefer a flat earth image).
This drivel will read as a callous attack upon America's youth, which is precisely what it is... It comes upon the heels of several interviews wherein 9 out of 10 'kids' (an affectionate term) plainly admitted to choosing not to vote in 2020. The same youth stated simply that they didn't think much of The "Environment", nor of "Mother Earth" as a concept. These -- Your kids will inherit the earth, and most appear  ill-equipped,  ill-informed, or both.  Thank you Social Media.
My friend Nate used to say, "Come the revolution,  they will be the first ones up against the wall"... I suppose, that too will not be televised. While It's unlikely that they will improve their social skills in the meantime, they may need to harden the fuck up.  In fact, we may all be a bit too squishy to begin abruptly at "roughing it".
Two young people told me that Global Warming was part of the normal ebb and flow of things. And all of them said that they didn't like "either candidate". As though they were picking from a menu at a fancy restaurant knowing their Parents will stop at Chipotle on their way home.

"BY NOW, it is just a question of which heart-rending image you choose. There is the hawksbill turtle struggling to free itself from a plastic bag. The sea of polystyrene trash floating over a Caribbean nature reserve. Or the sperm whale washed ashore in Spain, its stomach filled with plastic waste." Aisling Irwin The New Scientist 2018
Earth?, What earth?.. Nobody looks out the window anymore, as we motor along, Screens aglow upon doughy faces. Each 'Kid' posing upon a vinyl seat, ignoring each-other with headphones on. A.I. illuminates everything required to sustain them, providing: fashion, music, junk-food, pills and liquor. Hip-hop hums like bees through tiny diaphragms in each and every eardrum.  Vibrations echo through their hive, scented with adolescent feet, and axe effect. Pseudo geniuses geofenced by pre-ordained music, force-fed the same stream into  each lolling head in a wholly uncritical teen spirit musical agenda.
Yea, sure ‘the Kids are alright’, but they cannot know where we are heading next because nobody actually knows the name of the old guy who’s driving this bus. This is unsurprising because they didn’t vote.  Emotionally fragile, our celibate children punctuate celebrities, using emoticons on snack smeared screens, as if picking teammates for kickball. As the circus bus chugs forward in a blue diesel smog, dialog suppressed to The thumb direction of a dictator, our babies are stroking themselves to posts of pop pornography. Beautifully adorned baby-zombies sporting well-preserved Jordan’s, and snarky t-shirts, charging into their future. Fully formed toddlers learn to Swim in baggy sweatsuits, munching Gluten-Free single serving snacks. The Meek shall inherit the earth, (why not?)  -- And this thought should shake you until you shit yourself. What's left of the virgin earth could fit upon the teleprompter of Greta TinTin Thunberg. One of few with moxie, and initiative.
​
They say one should never wake a sleep-walker — whispering "Just let them wander back to the sofa". A trillion stoner sofas soiling the oceans, plugging its rivers, and ablaze in our forests.  All positioned to view the altar of our new online religion in landscape mode.
Happy Earth Day! everyone.

"Nobody told you you could take off your seatbelt!", (you child).
Cheap shots are those slices just over the net -- Those drop-shots which make you run up to the net in the midst of a great volley.  Nobody wants to play tennis with my friend Tom, nor my nephew for that matter, precisely because of their cheap shots. A normal civilized discourse is all about the volley, and that is all anyone laces up their shoes for. So who wants to play tennis with this prick?
You really need to practice a bit more if you are to convince the world that you are a super star. "Awe c'mon, why don't you want to play?"  he pleads... "Come on please...? I'll hit it nicely".
The very definition of pussy-prima-donna, (Will Smith) however is "squirming in his seat, pining for attention, whilst other actors are busy saying their lines."
Look it was never going to happen... You queen -- Because a film about an abusive father driving his daughters to lunatic lengths and some thirty grand-slams, would already qualify as abuse.
Have you learned nothing?
I mean... if you were so concerned for a ladies feelings, that you'd need to get out of your baby seat, and interrupt the show in progress to slap another man -- Then you'd perhaps have stopped abusing your daughters in the first place, Right?
If you wanted so badly to stand up and accept your award... Then you should have picked another script, or at least waited your fucking turn.

Nobody called your name, And so-what if by some miracle someone could turn your spouse into Demi-Fucking-Moore, then, what?  ...I'd think you'd welcome that.

 The ONLY Acceptance speech we'll entertain is for your apology.

Kinda reminds me of this Sissy

In what circumstance in our modern time, have the Americans  simply ‘sat one out’? Sidelined to grope one's partner — nervously crunching popcorn, gripping your date’s hand... We wince only when our streaming drama lands as real…  Fiction is exercise?, and about all anyone does these days. We are honing our skills at staying home; Ask around and you will find nearly everyone saying no “thank you”.
Well, as history may show, the American Machine seldom if ever “sits one out” -- so why now?
After 24 months of main-lining Cheetos, punctuated with "No Thank you's", is it any wonder we are nursing a good screenplay, over a tangible experience? Americans literally sat on their asses for two plus “pandemic” years in pseudo-slouched stoner posture, voyeuristically snack bingeing. Now we are still ignoring ovations from friends for “Dinner”, a “Walk”, or a “Ski Trip” because we've forgotten how to behave.  We are all either the one declining, proffering a paltry excuse, of convoluted 'caution'; Or we are the one doing the inviting…, without any takers.
We return from the kitchen with snack foods, gazing into that Black Mirror again, believing that our friends are none the wiser -- certain that our reasons to remain home on the couch are legit.
But we are soulless. 
America's ass is growing wider, forming obtuse lobes, like novel pumpkins, taking the shape of a cushion crease in the ultra-suede. All our butts like potted plants, ropy vines tether them into a hydroponic LCD glow.  Our new umbilici hold us fast to the undergrowth of crumbs and food residue loaming beneath the sofa. Our fertilizer truck, comes twice daily with plastic, and foam takeout cartons — Dragged to the stoop by marginalized gig-slaves, whilst we move from series, to news, to sports, and back to dramatic series, before opening he fridge again.
Super Bowl, Olympics, and now we watch the war, in-between episodic fictions cut perfectly to fit upon a spoon rather than a fork,  to reduce the effort of chewing.  We work from home now, and we also do just about everything else there, or nothing at all.

"I am Jack's Complete lack of surprise"

There is this brilliant line from “Fight Club”, where our single serving life is dissected to show just how pathetic we have become.  Our lives are now measured in spork-fulls,  A tiny salt packet, beside an 1/8 ounce ketchup pack, and some mystery hot sauce, accumulate in your fork drawer.  The austerity of our sloven selves, avoiding interaction, built to suffer against our fictional social media; We assemble around our flat-pack bed-delivery, offering ourselves upon our knees at the temple of Some-Assembly-Required.  Our “true selves” are now reflected in the glinting facet of a tiny five millimeter chrome allen key. With this we will assemble a more perfect bed-frame, oblivious to the collapse of our republic.
I suppose we could have ordered a new 'flat-pack' couch for delivery, ...and why not have them both delivered when casper comes to rescue our  spineless, posture-less backs.  Perhaps a massage chair, in lieu of exercise... 
Of course, We could also have stepped up pressure on Putin, well prior to the shit-show, but decided to "Work from Home" instead.
​As we prepare to go to war, for real -- but just before you wave your fucking dixie flag, consider just how big a pussy push-over America have really become.  Exchanging cheap shit for freedom, and cheap gas for a beautiful planet, waiting to be invaded.  Is it any wonder we are now watching the prelude on CNN?

We knew all about this shit in 2016, and yet we all looked away, as swaths of land was stolen from a peaceful country (somewhere) across the globe.  We picked our teeth and gave thanks and praise to our isolatory hemisphere, where no such event would occur. We watched it on TV, and then flicked back to a mini-drama remake of something we'd already seen on PBS. Americans only learn about geography, and diversity when brushing up on the latest war.  Another single serving primer which makes everyone an expert.
Now, the hottest show on TV is a live stream from the most human of human beings:  Volodymyr Zelenski. 
American Military personnel remain profoundly stunned that Zelensky, (comedian cum commander in chief), would actually risk his own skin—let alone brashly announce, (When the United States offered him safety), -- That he needs “ammunition, not a ride.” Who the fuck is this person?  Perhaps the only leader on the planet with the balls to be human, and the grace to give a fuck. Zelensky, in the midst of fighting like hell to survive, has already forgiven the Russian Soldiers who are coming for him, saying, 'Enemy soldiers deserve sympathy'.  “These are not warriors of a superpower,"  Zelensky says, "These are confused children who have been used. Take them home.”  We can all quote some great film scripts at this point, and even some great lyrics, but as lyric poetry goes, our beloved Ukrainian President is becoming Eastern Europe's Bob-Fucking-Dylan. Zelensky is equal parts mensch & antihero, and i'll light a candle daily with him.
​"Jagger sings in first person narrative as the Devil, who boasts his role in each of several historical atrocities and repeatedly asks the listener to "guess my name." The singer then ironically demands the listener's courtesy towards him, implicitly chastising the listeners for their collective culpability in the listed killings and crimes."   -Sympathy For The Devil Wikipedia
 Zelensky said at a press conference, “Even simple farmers are capturing Russian soldiers every day, and all of them say the same thing: They don’t know why they are here,” 
So we can agree that it's a bit less profound to decide between Ramen or Sushi, than to choose to shoot or be shot..., and while no decision comes easily, nor without risk -- The "West" sitting on their hands while watching a bully kick the shit out of the sensitive kid on the playground, is total fucking bullshit! 
History, is hard to fudge, when everything, and everyone is recording it.  Our complacent world is some mega-cellular neuro-collective of data, we each leverage trillions of packets of fact and fiction, storing & sorting myths and facts in our phones and in our brains -- pushing data back and forth in one giant organism. These facts will however outlive our excuses and betray our lack of shame, for not getting involved sooner. 
Putin's list of demands are not finite. There is no capitulation where troops retract, and peace & serenity return, in exchange for "only these things". Leverage has already been lost, and amidst a maelstrom of war crimes & destruction... -- Captives, and capital become the bounty of the bully who took the first swing.
History will show the irreparable damage to our fictional peace & tilted equality. Immense time has been squandered, since 2016, and we are behind on the preparations for house-guests.  We agree that this is about as sticky a geopolitical mess as the Cuban Missile Crisis... and "History" will show that in early 2022, the world went to hell in a hand-basket, while we watched TV.  Somewhere in the split second between the first shove, and the first swing... an enormous fight broke out, but nobody tried to break it up.
Fuck yes I'd follow Zelensky, even watch his six, in lieu of sitting through yet another fucking Netflix mini-series. To believe in something real again is about all the reason I'd need to lace up my boots and shoot or be shot for authenticity.  We should be so lucky as to find 'Zelensky two-point-O' running for US office in 2024.  What the world needs now, are less people, and more human beings.
One rank-and-file Marine followed in a USMC subreddit ,“Volodymyr Zelensky is about as motivating of a leader as I’ve seen in our lifetime,”  followed with, "Yep, I'd follow that guy into hell".
Before The U.S. can take a bow for corralled sanctions, can we please  review what is about to happen?  There is no outcome here, involving the male ego of a classic Bond Super Villain which will end peacefully.  The game is not a play of, "right time" politics, where pressure builds and a hot genie pops the fuck out of the kettle to whisk this away with wishes.  Rather, historically, the game reads back as a transcript, showing both kids shoving, until a swing in taken.  TRUMP (the moron) said we should paint Chinese on our planes and bomb them, and they'll never know it was us, right after diluting our stake in NATO, and Kissing Putin's ass at each opportunity.  When we compare notes, our history will gloss over the part where we allowed the fight to start in the first place -- (without interfering), perhaps just to have something new to watch on TV.
Look, I get it -- Nobody wants a war, and no good stories ever come from the bully pulpit.  But barely reading into this shallow human conquest reveals what we all know to be true today, and nobody wants to speak of, The shit has yet to hit the fan, and as in all Fist-Fights, the one who swings first, generally wins.

"I stuck around St. Petersburg, when I saw it was a time for a change, I killed the tzar and his ministers, and the nation screamed in vain"
"Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name."

-Mick Jaggar

 Oh How I miss the good old days when we all scattered like roaches under a Table, Desk, or deep below the house practicing our quiet complacency whilst the missiles fall  to earth and crater the entire city in a cloud of glowing ash. Peaceful as Hindu cows we all go down to cower and hide, while "The Numbers" go up.  Remember when Pink Floyd's "The Wall" showed spooky gas mask clad school teachers and children without faces falling in line like soldier zombies, as they went peacefully into the meat grinder.  Yep, It's like that.
Traumatized?  Yes, Have some...  PPE, may be the single most traumatic takeaway so called "Normal People" see in their nightmares.  Legions of people sweating, fogging, and writhing behind PPE. Is it a good Idea to use it?  -- Yep Sure. Should you live in fear? Well, that depends upon what outcome you were hoping for.
A year ago a friend asked me, (how) "...the children will be changed by such a monumental shift in their social lives".  My first answer was rather flippant, insensitive, even crass... "They wont be affected much", ..."they don't interact as it is..., so they will just get better at socializing online". 
He said, "...but thinking about the masks, and the fear, and the distancing... I worry about how generations will change fundamentally because of COVID, what can we do to get them back to normal".
"Act Normally" I said. And it was at that moment, that I envisioned Slim Pickens as Major T. J. "King" Kong riding a Nuke down from his bomber in Soviet Airspace to MADden up the place.  Mutually Assured Destruction, can only happen, if you let it... (right?)
I became a student of the Cold War and began studies in an era of Mutually Assured Destruction, (M.A.D.) and One's desire to play a proper role in this circus reinforces many life lessons which we gave a big shit about back when, but  we now know to be blase', self-evident, trite. As we say, "the concept of ignorance being bliss follows, with a collective sea-change, or in the least, everyone playing along needs to happen first, ...and we will get there.
1. The other kid can't get under your skin, if you ignore them. Check!
2. Ignoring your work will only lead to more work later. Check!
3. Homework (like all rules) suck, and so if we all just ignore it, they can't fail all of us, right?
Check!
​COVID, like the clever participants who manage to ride this bomb down to mutually assured destruction, soon come to discover that they could leave their basements, travel, explore, exercise, and even fuck like humans used to.  Not like Porn Stars, and not like Actors on T.V., but like humans did before they shopped for face masks, rubber gloves, sanitizers, test kits, PPE, and vibrators.

Look!, you're never gonna sleep with that trainer from your Peloton Bike, so you might as well assume the siren is clanging outside and venture out to find someone outside to do. 

It turns out that when I truly consider the concept of COVID19, I keep returning to the "19" Thing -- (NINETEEN) Bloody Hell! 2019 was a fucking lifetime ago.  As we peek out from under the covers of 2022, let's straighten our backs from the 2020 YOGA position called: "Cowering Under the Desk", and do some shit... Today, I realize that my life has really not changed significantly since 2019, except for all the B.S. after-burn ingested, and politics we've became accustomed to in our new Cold War / Post-911-land. Here, Secretary of Homeland Security Tom Ridge sounded the Orange Alert Sirens for another Terrorist Attack every fucking day and every fucking night for a decade -- Early in the decade we all learned to remove belts, and shoes, and laptops... and then tune this shit the fuck out.  A clever Brother of mine reminded me of the genius (The) Onion  Article Dated February 26th, 2003, illustrating just how important our government and media are in a time of crisis:

Orange Alert Sirens To Blow 24 Hours A Day In Major Cities
"These 130-decibel sirens, which, beginning Friday, will scream all day and night in the nation's 50 largest metro areas, will serve as a helpful reminder to citizens to stay on the lookout for suspicious activity and be ready for emergency action," Ridge said. "Please note, though, that this is merely a precautionary measure, so go about your lives as normal." "Go about your usual business," Ridge said. "Of course, while you do so, keep in mind that we are just barely this side of Red Alert, the highest level of danger possible." ( -The Onion c. 2003)

It may come as no surprise that the genius dark comedy  "Dr. Strangelove" never won an Oscar, but won loads of parallel awards abroad.  Shit gets lost on the lay public, because they are watching the ball drop, instead of the Hottie next to you. It's no surprise either that "Dr. Strangelove" never made it to your dumb-shit Netflix hit-list, For twenty-four tedious COVID months whilst you scarfed takeout, and scoured for more Czech Cop Procedurals, The Good Stuff eluded your occluded path toward agoraphobic redemption.  Later, in awe of it's social relevance and posthumus brilliance, in 1989 "Strangelove" was selected, by the United States Library of Congress  as one of the first twenty-five films for preservation in the National Film Registry for being "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant". They had to wait until the sting of hiding under our desks had worn off, I suppose.

The thing is... with the latest 2019 mechanism thingy called "Omicron" set to destroy you and everyone you know and love, wouldn't it be good to actually feel something first? I mean, right before you go on life support, what would you rather be wearing...?

Today you can roll those sleeves up, peel off the latex, and learn to love Someone, Something, or  some more PPE -- But you cannot shake that creepy  prophylactic feeling that you've been "playing-along" with gloves on far too long. In your second anniversary sedentary social experiment bound by latex, and isopropyl, set to the soundtrack of re-run laugh-tracks -- Your New Year's Resolution should actually be to quit your sterile rubber-glove love-dramas altogether -- Touch someone with your bare hand, grab a hug as the bombs are falling, ride that cool breeze down to earth, and  learn to love the fucking bomb. 

Cough!... #COVID22

P.S. You know Putin is going to get real Bond Villian Soon, and we'll be back in the shit-show watching the war again, so enjoy your so called freedom whilst it lasts, and I'll meet you under the desk in March.

If you are a youngster, then you wont understand this anyways..., But There is this phrase "Jump The Shark", and it refers to the extreme length one may go to remain culturally relevant, and in short summary it refers to the final claxon which clanged a death knell for the late 70's Sitcom "Happy Days". Who, lacking any social currency in a changing demographic, simply had a leather jacketed wimpy tough-guy ski-jump over a shark pool to boost viewers. The ratings were up, and then the show ended.

"Happy Days" Shot in mythical Milwaukee's beer empire, sadly only sipped malts, and chewed fries, but it remains The namesake for the Baby Boomer's misplaced generational Nostalgic dick, from whence it's rosy world was populated by White-Bread, God-Fearing, and Secret-Keeping laugh-track zombies.  To understand this, Picture Ash Wednesday cultists roaming the earth wearing crochet'd ponchos, carrying Purses donning fringe, or tassels and harry armed men and women sporting ultra-large horn-rimmed Harry Caray Eyewear, with a drop-sided temple.  These bearded Church-goers, became altar-boys, and Nuns, and served their higher calling, (even in public parks) Spreading their gospel whilst relishing in when: (A)Merica was homogenous, homophobic, and hyperbolic. During the "Happy Days" era, we celebrated yet again winning a war, (decades ago), whilst concealed our naughty bits: Racism, Sexism, Classism, blurring the line between puritanical and Capital "H" Hypocrite -- revised history met the sharp end of a  tip-eraser.  Everyone drank the Kool-Aid, (along with black coffee & pale beer) and everyone was complicit in a scheme to defraud the country of authenticity in favor of canned Soup Casserole's, TV Dinners, and Jiffy-Pop.  America ripped a hole in it's last sack of "realness", and set about to white-wash it's gritty history in favor of a false narrative where strapping dudes in bomber jackets descend from the clouds like flying monkeys to appropriate the Krinkle-Kut French-Fry as a bona fide American cuisine.   But we had decent Beer. Then Consolidation happened, and corporate greed appropriated every brand into the bland blondness of Anheuser Miller Coors PBR and the like.  Before Micro-brewery was a term of endearment, there were not yet hip upstarts to meet the chipper-shredder of the great IN-BEV simulator. In search of something less blasé,  our sordid youth was spent searching for better options, from whence brands like Becks, Brand, and Samuel Smiths had only begun to sit beside Moosehead, and Molson.  And so we, the bridge-drug generation understand the odyssey to acquire taste, and perhaps gain the right to say, "I drank that before it was cool" (commercially speaking).  But Blaachhh! -- I'd take a piss-warm skunky St Pauli, over the milky monster-mash we are regaling today. 

Back to Basics in our 'Hoppy Days', The Milk Man, and The Butcher fucked the Maid, whilst men and women smoked and flirted at the office. (It wasn't yet termed the workplace) Pale Lagers which formerly poured from neighborhood Bars on every corner, became replaced by "Country Clubs" excluding the untouchable races, and classes. And this barely touches the salty tip of the "Happy Days" America. Here, this sacred nostalgic fairy-land is where white men from Rumsfeld to Trump want to re-deploy. Reveling in the glory-days of your imagined mis-spent youth is not only tacky but dangerous, but it begs to be unsettled, or even unseated from your throne because the world changed while you were reading Sports Illustrated on the toilet.

Beer can make the rough edges of everything a bit smoother, right?  Beer blissful and simple like the lonely tortilla chip which hoists a tangy salsa into your mouth -- Is merely a vehicle for the alcohol which it delivers.  Beer of any ABV can help to pass the time of your self imposed quarantine, it can make your friends seem more charming, when you do eventually mingle, and Beer can tell you a lot about a person, by the bottle they choose.  But Beer does not need an equal measure of water to hops.  We have the Stout Drinkers, and the Pilsner People, and we also have the indulgent Double and Triple Crowd who's ABV bring you swiftly to your knees.   While I'm not a fruit beer drinker, Anything with actual fruit in it, not made by actual Monks Is not beer, but a "special hooch" akin to flavored tobacco, and vape pens. Nearly every flavored beer is a Gateway (transitional housing) coddling youngsters to a truthful beer epiphany. Where real good beer may bring someone over from the dark side -- A real beer revelation requires a transition from the Cosmopolitan, or the Coriander of the Christmas Ale, to the simple pleasure of a Kölsch. Then. there is the Lightweight Beer lifter... Someone who orders the Loaded Nachos, whilst tacitly counting the calories of their Michelob Ultra.  DO NOT lend this fucker money either!

'Nothing against light beer...  I have nothing against white wonder bread either, so long as I don't have to consume either. By observation and from research, one can easily find that it's not the fat that is killing America, nor is it their blatant consumerist lack of good taste -- But it is their willingness to roll over and die from diabetes, heart disease, and cancer from what we willingly choose to consume. As statistics will bear out, Light Beer won't kill you directly, Nor will that White Claw, but it will show your friends that you lack good judgement, as you polish the sixth pale malt beverage, flinging chicken wing-bones into a greasy red plastic wicker basket.   

For Me a light beer is a Pilsner, and a darker beer like a Guinness Stout has less calories and less alcohol than most light beers today, or a White Claw for that matter. I also don't count calories, because there is no accounting for taste. Back in "Happy Day's Land", when America was "Great" the first time around, and there was a bar on every corner where locals drank from a single tap, brewed locally.  The choice was a bit less like the toothpaste aisle, and a bit more like a desert gas pump, serving regular or unleaded.   A Beer (dark or light) was something which took the edge off of the working folks, and made their soon to be future spouse look, act, and even smell better -- This worked marvelously.  Hence the Baby Boom -- An explosive mixture of Strong Beer, Catholic dogma, lack of "Choice", and the hushed secret stigma of American human sexuality.  Because, well... Why talk about anything anyway?, It's better to pretend that babies come from storks, which like God, dwell up in the clouds, until they surprise you with six fucking children; one after the other, until ...well, you guessed it  -- Beer No longer works to take the edge off, so you move to the hard stuff, and he moves out.  And so here we come full circle to the story of how America ran amok, and then ran aground.
Beer is a good metaphor for so many things because like rings on a tree, it has been keeping score for thousands of years.  Atilla The Hun used to brew yak's milk into a beer of sorts which Marco Polo said tasted (as you'd imagine, "...Like a shitty Fucking IPA"), but it took the edge off.

Today, the children are running this ship full-steam directly toward the shore, and along the way they are appropriating everything from bad fifties haircuts and eyewear to far worse facial hair and dress-code.  They un-ironically look like my parents did, or basically anyone from Happy Days, besides perhaps The Fonze. (The fucker who was supposed to jump the fucking shark) -- Except They/Them wit  ironic throwback pleather jackets behind their facial hair, are out of shape, hypertensive, and pre-diabetic.  Is it any wonder then -- That their single embellishing contribution to the new beer dialog would be to reach even further back to the Mongolian Empire, and remake fermented Yak's Milk?, AKA Hazy IPA?

Jump the Fucking Shark Already.

To fully understand what has happened you will need to understand another appropriation which seemingly has no historical analog.  The Youth in my town; The same kids with the ironic police moustaches, are misappropriating the vomit inducing herbal remedy Fernet, from a Norwegian Winter warm-up shot -- simply because Jägermeister remains still too close in the rear-view to be a true Throwback.  There is (apparently) a rule about borrowing from prior cultures, and although I don't understand it fully, it does state that one skip at least two generations before pulling that box out of the attic, and trying on something old (again).

So what has become of the toxic melding of Hipster, with the current toothpaste aisle & pop culture?  It's a bit like leaded gas... It was a brilliant solution to the problem of engine Knocking lubricity, but delivered a carcinogenic death knell to humans and the planet for more than 2 generations.  The same generation which inspired such awesome innovations as "Clean Coal" Happy Days, White Supremacy, Global warming, and Jell-O with tiny marshmallows could now celebrate ash fucking Wednesday every fucking Wednesday.  Thank you Clean Coal!

So... Before we dig through our grandparents attics and basements to find our next throwback treasures, Let's at least have a toast to what they may have done right.  Beer was Beer, Cheese came unsliced, (even unpackaged) Vegetables though rare didn't come in a large non-disposable clear Plastic dish-pan, Everyone was thin, and Nobody "Asked their doctor if (%$#!@&*) was right for them... Because There was scarcely a person on the block who needed a drug to fix their lethargy, or impotence, because Amphetamine was abundant. If your grandparents did watch a Throwback nod to "Happy Days" of yore, they did it for an hour and then got up and walked down to the local bar for the only beer on offer, with a whisky shot.

This brings me to the over-reaching misappropriation of too fucking many choices, and should any choice but MILK be completely and eternally opaque?
Today there may not be a local bar on every corner, but you will find a 10,000 calorie Starbucks drink, every 800 feet in any given town, Or perhaps a "Dunkin" serving the same whipped diabetic shock, only loosely related to the original calorie-free Black Coffee your grandparents brewed. Thank you humble Sugar Cube.
Today, you're just as likely to find a newly minted brewery without any redeeming recipes dotted between each and every Starbucks, such that the pattern picks up a plaid check as follows: Starbucks, CVS, Brew-Pub, Dunkin, Chipotle, Walgreens, Starbucks, Target, Dunkin, CVS, Brew-Pub, Walgreens, Chipotle, Starbucks.  If you Love the new tapestry delivering Caffeine (which is harmless on it's own), followed by Diabetes,  Heart disease, COPD, Hypertension, etc... It sure is great to know you can fill your script,  at a Walgreens on the same block.  

The real great news is while you wait for your prescription, you can have a pint at the local brewery, as long as you can find your COPD medication, because they are brewing that Yak Milk fermentation, Using enough Hops to preserve a youthful Cher for another century. Hoppy Days are here again.

Look!, If you are a winding down Hipster dwelling in your parent's Basement and there is nothing you can actually do well, then all is not lost. You can always get a teaching job.  ...And, If you cannot teach, then you can probably teach Gym class.  IF you cannot teach Gym, then perhaps you can Bake -- being a baker is cool, noble and useful, but -- Oh hell... Baking is part art form, and part science -- So you will probably fuck that up too.  You may wake up on the couch one morning pissed that you have no beer money, and say, "Hey!, I'll boil some grain or Yak's Milk in a pot and make some Hooch.... yea!, Now you're talkin'.
Alas, when you can't make or bake anything good, and you've failed teaching Gym, and when dulled taste and a consistently good beer evades your social stanine -- Well, then... if this new hip school on your corner called the "Brew-pub" offers a class, and you fail at making  even a piney IPA, because yours' tastes like Fermented Yak Reflux -- Well, all is not yet lost, because everyone in your age range likes your ironic cop mustache, and your white vinyl belt, and they want you to put your ironic visage on this new beer-ish invention -- This, your mélange of milky bits floating amidst a cloudy jizz-fizz of pine tar, tobacco, and acid reflux shall be called a "Hazy IPA", and it will overtake all good sensible former beer drinkers, with its soupy consistency of wheat chafe, and baby-dog drool.

At this, your matriculation from sub-par subterranean gamer to ironic brew-master, you alone will shift the conversation from a clean refreshing beer to the toothpaste aisle. This sadly begs the question: "Because One can..., Should One?, and Shall we serve both a "Shitty Shandy", AND a "Hazy IPA" this New Years, or simply crack a crappy pale lager, like your Grandparents drank?   

Fear Not!, young dandy, Your Grandparents no longer pray for "Happy Days" to return, nor for you to find a job -- but now they pray for a global Hop famine.