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Sunday
Mar152009

The Power of Imagination.

The economy does not actually exist. I know what you might be thinking now. "Hey, how deep of a hit did you just take from your opium bong? You godless hippie." The short answer is: not that deep. The long answer is: An economy is just an agreed upon system of values and trade rules. It is no more set in stone than any other idea, and can be re-arranged or fundamentally revised any time we feel like it.

I know it seems as if economic systems, such as our pseudo-capitalist one, are quite real. As real as the buildings that house all of the institutions that prop up this concept. But it really isn't. It's "simply" a very elaborate system we have concocted in order to keep people producing goods and services that in the end benefit most of us. Motivated by greed. Punished by hunger. I will leave any further moral values and my own Utopian hopes out of it.

If this current model of incentives and punishment isn't getting the job done let's change it. Fine tune it to work better. Improve the social safety net for workers. Tax the rich bankers a little higher. Make sure stock trading is better regulated. Even out the peaks and valleys. We also have the short term option: Keep on buying stuff, you dumb shits.

A recession happens when people think a recession will happen. They stop buying and start saving. Industrialists stop producing the things that aren't being bought anymore. The same people who stopped buying get fired and continue not buying (now for a different reason, lack of funds) and the downward spiral worsens. Do you want to keep your job? You want your friends to keep their jobs? Stop stuffing your mattress full of imaginary wealth printed on paper and purchase things that might be useful. Either sneakers with lights in the heals or a shotgun for fending off the mutants when this economic crisis hits apocalyptic proportions.

You think I am over-simplifying a very complex issue? Yes, I might be. Bare in mind though that economist's seemingly elaborate hypotheses are not any more accurate. If these Oracles of Wall Street and Captains of Industry had any clue what pattern the market follows (if any) they'd be able to fix it. Instead they're just throwing anything they can think of at the problem and seeing what sticks. So far, nothing is.

A system no-one understands isn't a system, it's chaos. So kick back, grab a beer you've just brewed in your own toilet and enjoy watching as these granite monoliths of capitalism crumble. Like that pension you had saved away. It's much more fun watching something come crashing down. At least now you are not alone, standing in the rubble.

Also:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ci80-3NrEv8]

Monday
Jan142008

The Man, part 2.

Bandaid


I got the call just as I was leaving work. I almost snapped off the band-aid from my finger while scrambling to get the phone out of my pocket. What the hell does she want now? Isn't it enough that she rejected me? Is this some sort of sick game to her? I know alot of things, the only problem is that most of it's wrong. One thing I am certain of however is that I love her. Or loved her, whichever makes me less pathetic. For the longest time she seemed like she was deciding. What she wanted from life, what she wanted from me. In reality though she had probably figured out exactly what she needed me for quite some time ago. Some sort of male companionship. When other men treated her like shit she needed me to come in and reassure her. Tell her she didn't deserve what she got. Keep her company. Maybe watch a movie and eat dinner together, in our little apartments. Knowing full well that I wanted her. On second thought it was entirely possible she couldn't quite understand just how much this feeling had taken over my life. No, no she had to know. Not fully, but surely an inkling had to appear somewhere in that head of hers. We were more than friends. "Just friends" as she put it. The phrase that can make any grown man feel like he's back in school, having just been humiliated in front of the class. "This is my heart, please don't dump it on the floor." I really need to get back home first and have a shower and change this band-aid. It's starting to itch, a whole lot. If this thing gets infected I swear to God I'm going to go berserk! I'm not going to lose a finger over a bet. How the hell was I to know that Indian would be so good at the knife game? Proving once again that whisky and sharp objects don't mix. The band-aid is getting frayed around the edges and discoloured. If only it was a Flintstones one like when you were a kid. That would be cute, that would be a way in when you're picking up women. What the hell am I thinking? "Hey baby, wanna see my disfigured finger?" Sexy, real sexy. Who was it that had fucked her and left this time? Some dashingly handsome actor? A mysterious musician? A successful banker? It didn't matter. They were all the same underneath. The same insecure, preening, posturing bullshit artists that equally insecure women fall for. I knew most of these guys through friends of friends and acquaintances. Walking human echoes, one and all. What a whiny little bitch I had become. At times that little piece of plastic cloth felt like it was the only thing holding me together.