Price Point.

I bought tires for my car yesterday. Two new tires cost $186.10. I was shocked. I mean for chrissakes, for that much money I could pay my student loan bill for the month and my internet bill to boot.

I remembered when I bought tires for my first car, a geo metro, and it only cost about 100 bucks for four new tires. I mean, I guess it’s true that I worked at McDonalds and only made $4.25 an hour, but that is ancillary. Then I thought about gasoline, and how when I first had that car gas was only $0.96 a gallon. I could fill up the tank for about 9 and half bucks and drive it for 300 miles. And Stamps…. Jesus I remember buying stamps for my mom when I was a kid and they were a Quarter apiece. Crazy huh… Milk was a buck a gallon when I was in college and I only spent about 10 bucks a week on groceries.

In the middle of this internal compare and contrast blitzkrieg it occurred to me that when my dad was young a loaf of bread was probably about 10 cents, and when my grandparents were young a new car cost about 3 grand. How are these people not constantly freaking out when they go to the store? I am surprised there aren’t riots everyday in grocery stores and gas stations, or people standing outside with picket signs that have the prices of things from when they were kids on them. I’m mean 3 dollars for a bag of pretzels is insanity.

Finally I realized that yet another milestone in my life had been reached. I, like my parents and grandparents, now remember a time in the past, far enough removed from now that the youth of today can not remember it, can not relate to it, and do not give a shit about it. And when those youth are just a little bit older they will talk about when gas was $2.95 a gallon, and how you could buy a cup of coffee with a REFIL for $1.75. They’ll lament the loss of the hip neighborhoods to gentrification, and how movies used to be only 10 bucks. And with certainty and disdain they will declare that there aren’t any good and cheap places to live anymore, and that there are definitely no good bands left in this town.

Dude, you're killing me...

Post-Youth.

On my last birthday my dad sent me a card that said, “When I turned your age… you were four.” The implication was that he wanted some grandbabies, but I got something very different out of it.

When my dad turned 32 he had a wife and they owned a home. He had 2 kids. He worked on a railroad moving coal around Appalachia. I am 32 and I do not have a “real” job. I’m a “Production Assistant” in the “film industry”. I do not have a wife. In fact, I rarely have a relationship last longer than a few months. I rent a big(ish) room in a house in NE Portland for less than 400 dollars a month.

My peers and I still refer to most of our friends as girls or boys, or dudes, or kids. The kids. We are the kids. But I am not a kid. We still go to shows and buy records. We rent cramped and dirty spaces to make our music and our art. We sit around in coffee shops talking about how great the things we are working on will be and never finish them. We get tattoos instead of pay the Comcast bill. We stay up late talking about novels, and movies, and songs, and making lists and then arguing over them and we are over 30. Or will be soon. We do not have health insurance, and we do not go to the dentist. We are not kids anymore, but we are not adults. Not in the sense that our parents are.

We are Post-Youth.

We disregard our wars as entertainment and our politics as comedy. And somehow we aren’t forced into any of the corners that our parents were. We aren’t drafted. We aren’t mortgaged. Our offices are stolen and we don’t care. We are saying the same things we have been saying since we were actually young. We are waiting around on someone to pay for our rent, and our mistakes. To buy us dinner. To make us famous. To celebrate everything we say, and think, and do and make and to tell us that we are beautiful and put us to bed.

And when we wake up in the morning and no one has done this we think, “maybe tomorrow…”

The Kids are All Old.

Value(d)

I was in Fred Meyers Thursday night using one of the Self Checkout islands, which could be the subject of a blog all their own, at which they have little machines that spit out coupons based on what you are in the act of purchasing or have purchased in the past. Until recently they were almost always WAY off base. Coupons for things like adult diapers, or yeast infection creams would spit out of the machine making a ticker tape like tail down the side of the self-checkout until the person doing the job of 7 people would come over and recycle them.

More recently the coupons have become increasingly accurate. Morningstar burgers and soysauge coupons have appeared along side discounts on natural soaps and cleaning agents, so I started paying more attention when checking out. This last Thursday when I was checking out I looked at the little thing being printed and it was for Viva brand paper towels. I thought, “Oh I’ve got those before, this thing is creepy but awesome…” Then I looked closer at the piece of paper. It was not a coupon. It said instead that if I bought Viva Brand Paper towels in the future that I would receive a coupon at that time good for a purchase after that purchase. So… it wasn’t a coupon, but a promissory note that a coupon would in fact be issued in the future providing I met the stipulations of this current un-coupon, i.e. dates quantities etc.

I’m sorry but what the fuck are you talking about Fred Meyer? Anyone who plans purchases based on the promise of future coupon disbursement is a desperate and confused individual who needs to find something, ANYTHING to fill the hours of the night when they are alone, and the television is on, and they don’t want to think about work but they can’t think about anything else, and jesus why is it so hard to meet people anymore, it used to be so much easier when they were younger, but now I just look at pictures of people on the internet and think about funny things to say if I were around them and god if I could just meet someone… anyone… maybe I’ll take up a new hobby or learn to play the piano or something… I bet I could meet someone if I took an improv class or went to an open mic, but those things are scary and totally weird and anyway I’d probably just end up not liking their views on the current administration or whatever religion they were born into, so I should probably just color coordinate my coupons cause this Saturday is that awesome LaborDay/Memorial Day/ Thanksgiving/Xmas/Easter/Mothers Day/Fathers Day/May Day/9-11/Autumnal Equinox sale that I purchased four cases of Annie’s Organic Mac and Cheese in order to get coupons for Seventh Generation Laundry detergent which will already be on sale so…

NOT REDEEMABLE FOR A GODDAMN THING.

My Advice to You…

As most of you know I recently ended a relationship (see previous entry). It was mutual and we both are much happier now I’m sure. But I got to thinking about things… I got to thinking about them while looking at a painting. My most recent ex worked in the art field and we talked a LOT about art. About the art world. The art community et all. So, standing before this painting I thought about her, and our relationship, and all of the ways that it didn’t work. This painting, as well as almost any sculpture or art event, reminded me of her, and our relationship, and our subsequent break up.

Upon further reflection, I offer this small piece of advice to anyone considering a relationship. Be mindful of what that person does or is. Let’s say you date an architect, a person who makes buildings… well EVERY TIME YOU ARE IN A BUILDING you are going to be reminded of that person. Or if you date a dentist, or a dental hygienist, every time you brush your teeth (which is hopefully two to three times a day) you are going to think of them, and the thing they did or didn’t do, or that you did or didn’t do, that eventually led to the end of your union. If you date a plumber, then water, and the toilet, and the shower become a constant nagging reminder of your failures in relationships. A barista? Coffee… every… morning.

If possible, I recommend someone in a field that is either completely irrelevant, or someone who’s occupation already carries a negative connotation. Such as an astronomer, or a customer service rep for a cell phone company, or a Disc Jockey for a commercial radio station. The more obscure, annoying, and useless the occupation, the better. If that person has a doctoral degree in a language or math, you’re probably safe.

So be careful when you are selecting someone that you may have to break up with, because whenever I have to get my haircut, I sigh a quiet lament for all the things that I didn’t do right.

Not for sitting.