At home in this department store, smiley faces threaten to save me seventeen cents, while the thirst of a V6 cannot be quenched and the magnets making millions march from golf course to board room and back again.  Straighten your Gucci tie and shine your Ferragamos while I figure out what I won't be able to afford this week. 

As spoiled children, we've begun to lean toward the disposable, the augmentable, the ever less accessible.  Exclusivity, lack of dignity, attention and designer whores in a half-heroin stumble, parading endlessly through streets lined with billboards and advertisements and "Hello, may I take your order?" and that old lady who thinks that my skin tone is evidence of my propensity to steal  an overpriced t-shirt while the cameras roll.

Somedays I want to roll up my sleeves and a thrift store backpack and head for a place where your reputation will not precede me: a place where I can go and live and work to make things better instead of working to make you look better.  Maybe I'll steal your Bentley on my way through California.