This day in history: Friday 29, November 2013.
Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. The busiest shopping day of the year.
On this day, people pour into malls and stores of the Corporations to purchase things, spurred on by special deals and discounts made available for this day specifically.
An Indiana Pizza Hut manager was ordered to sign a letter of resignation for refusing to open on Thanksgiving. Momentum in the sway of the publics buying potential is at an ever-heightening pace at all times. It must be this way. Research and new technologies have taught businesses––upon reaching the apex of prominence––how to milk their success.
In my spam box, an e-mail from Wal-Mart states: Black Friday Begins Now, sent out while it was still Thursday for another seven hours yet. Mixed in with other e-mails offering high end designer watches and handbag replicas, weight loss secrets, diet pills, and several penis enhancement products.
A Wal-Mart Employee in Long Island, New York was trampled to death by a herd of 200 shoppers.
The close proximity of Christmas is also paramount. Nostalgia and tradition transfused with capitalistic exploitation. A religious holiday. A religious experience.
Charles Manson is engaged to a 25-year-old named Star, they announced today. Allegations that actress Brittany Murphy was poisoned came out just two days prior. “Government spooks” is what one of the early reports said. US Secretary of State John Kerry is supposed to be engaging in further uranium talks in Geneva right now. John F. Kennedy was assassinated 50 years ago today.
American martyrdom. Hollywood. The book depository.
All interesting enough things to be thinking about.
Bitch was right to publish Thomas’s remarks. Feminism embraces empathy and receptivity to the pain of others. To deny Thomas her voice is to deny her pain and to render Palestinian subalternity yet more invisible.
Took my dad’s old Grand Marquis up to the CVS real quick. As I’m getting ready to back out and leave, a lanky middle-aged man with a grocery cart strolls by behind me, carrying milk and other items. I wait for him to safely pass as he rolls up to his truck parked a space over from mine.
“What kind of mileage you have with that?” he excitedly turns to ask me through my driver’s side window. “You get good mileage with that?”
“I dunno. It’s my dad’s car,” I explain. “Pretty good, I think.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. They run fine. Ya know, gas prices the way they are––if people didn’t drive twenty miles to work everyday we could have two-dollar gas again! It’s crazy!”
“Oh, yeah. Tell me about it. This gas-guzzler culture of ours.”
“I mean, people around here driving up to Port Huron for work! If people just lived closer to their jobs––I mean, it costs a hundred dollars for me to fill my tank up all the way!” he shouts, pointing at his truck. “People are just crazy!” he squeals again.“It’s selfish, that’s what it is. Selfish. And you know, my mother always said, she said, ‘No matter what you do, never get God mad at ya.’”
“You got that right,” I tell him, trying to figure out how to end this, leaning my arm over the passenger seat like I’m about to back out. “Absolutely.”
“Well, God bless you,” he finally concludes with a handshake.