The Bourgeoisie.

It sounds awfully Communist, but it’s completely true. I’m surrounded by the bourgeoisie. I’m part of it.

And so, I’ve noticed, is most everybody else that uses the word “bourgeoisie.” I haven’t met a single fan of Che who wasn’t a rich kid, and maybe that’s because the proletariat has bigger fish to fry than romanticizing political figures. It is awfully silly to bite the hand that feeds you, and my generation’s tendency to do that never ceases to confuse me. I mean, it really ought to be difficult to despise corporations if you own an Apple computer.

The hypocrisy of it astounds me. Rich people hating rich people. What?

College indie hipsters wearing horn-rimmed glasses and denouncing capitalism could very well be the rebirth of crackers appreciating gangster rap, and that’s why I always laugh on the inside when I’m at a Whole Foods.

Off to the Hospital

I’ll be volunteering tonight at the same hospital I was born in sixteen years ago.

The last time I was there, a guy died of a heart attack, and his family (I think they were Ethiopian) cried for a good hour or so. They were more passionate than any people I’d seen in my life. All I could do was give lame, quasi-sympathetic looks at them every five minutes or so.

But I digress. It’s a good way to spend a Friday night.