Inhabitable, I thought. I once knew a man that was in the habit of building tables, of course he would then crawl under them and wait for them to break on him. He had reported them to be homes, though those that ate over him claimed tables. Since he was after all the only man under the table, and they were the many eating over him, he was wrong outright. He sold the tables that wouldn't break, finding no interest in their lack of change. He found out it was the change that made them inhabitable. To have something break over you, he said, was exhilarating.
This guy with the longer beard though, he said it was for positive change, thats why people wanted to go somewhere no one else ever would.
To get something done, for every step in the right direction, knowing you are always at your worst in the present, regale the future, the past is gone.
He started a radio station that teaches you spanish when you travel south and french when you travel north. I had been moving west and east and heard nothing.
When I went back to Orange County though they had set up this extraordinary system of chores and errands for the younger generation.
Brea is a High School town in north Orange County. I recently estimated the population of Brea to be half minors (0-18) and half older adults (30-70). With the removal of all college aged and young professional adults (18-30) a direct line of authority is drawn.
A recent rash of pop up soft adobe brown colored chain strip malls have opened up a wide range of extremely low responsibility minimum wage jobs. Here you will find your Chick-Fil-A, Panera Bread, Chipotle. The business proposals for such relied on high tech cooking and cleaning machines requiring only the placement of a dish and the push of a button.
There is sanitation in stainless steel.
Those buttons require only fingers. The same fingers running microwaves, dishwashers, ovens, washing machines, and the occasional blender for the past 15-17 years of their lives.
There are research teams in twenty floor buildings developing a thinner more durable plastic for these buttons so as to keep these fingers from callous, from breaking a fake nail, a consumer market.
Those fingers were trained through the eyes and minds of children trained cooking by microwave dinner instructions. They were perfect for the job. These microwave dinners were a common late night meal due to the parents of these fingers working late nights to finish proposals for businesses designed around simplifying the remedial task of cooking down to the talent of microwave dinner instructions.
They found a way to repeat everything they already knew, except now in a service setting, snapped the learning curve using only their fingers.
However, they were in a sense eating themselves.
Teaching themselves the simplicity of stupidity in the most well researched and intelligent way.
The parents now dined at these restaurants after work, having their finger children press pretty much the same buttons for them that they were raised pushing out of neglect late at night in front of the blue glow of a microwave. The microwaves in these restaurants did get bigger, and the line between a microwave and an oven blurred to non-existence. The children were denied allowance, told to get a job. The parents laughed in their sleep. The chores of America had been put into place. Once graduated from high school the children went off to real cities for college, their jobs pushing buttons opened up and then were filled by the younger high school class. They are marching along, a microwave generation, training took, at most, usually, two days. The food is said to be artisan.
The parents are getting older, they move into rest homes, then into cemeteries. The children come back from college married, exhausted at 30 of the busy city life. They complain about not having enough space to raise a healthy child in the city, too much crime to raise a baby. They move back to Brea, they buy the homes of their parents at a discount. Everyone has an aunt in suburban reality. They have children by 32, the children begin pushing buttons by 5, the restaurants technology ramps up, less buttons, no dishes, higher health standards in an attempt to cure death. The food is still, however, said to be artisan.
I told all of this to the man with the beard, I told him positive change was impossible in paradise, I told him to go to paradise and look for his peace. I told him I’m leaving Orange County and not coming back.