The Walmart Effect

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My sincere hope was that Home Depot would carry a scientific calculator.  I’m not sure what made me think this.  As I approached the tool aisle I could already see from a distance that I would be disappointed.  There were only two different calculators hanging on hooks and neither one of them was smarter than a fifth grader.  Oh well; I tried.  I resigned myself at that moment to a trip to the Walmart across the highway knowing full well what would happen: the Walmart effect.

I went in with the intention of buying a Casio solar scientific calculator, the one I’ve used since my college days (since which the price has gone from $15.00 twenty years ago to $7.00 now; with inflation, that’s less than $4.00,  giving a clue as to how much they were screwing us twenty years ago.)  Alas, I came out with a calculator, a set of 500-thread bed sheets, a matching throw, Alice in Wonderland on DVD (what else would it be on?), and only narrowly avoided a ready-to-bake pizza, Starbuck’s dark chocolate mocha frappucino, and coconut M&Ms.  I went in intending to spend seven dollars and I spent a hundred and thirty-eight.

There comes a point at which convenience is criminal.  Even a convenience store jacks up their prices to prevent you from going hog wild.  But Walmart?  So much variety, so much color, so much of everything you need, want, or fancy; this plus millions of dollars of psychological research conducted over decades on unsuspecting shoppers in order to figure out what makes their wallets tick; all at rock bottom prices; it has its effect on me, to say the least.

I’m gonna love my new sheets, though.

Finding Volunteers

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I have begun the process of culling volunteers.  What’s a literary blog without feedback, right?  Whether through cajoling, begging, or bribing, I will assemble a modest but motley band of eyes and ears for this effort.  As I write I can hear the winds whipping bullets of water against the walls of my single wide splendor.  The hurricane is far to the south, but the storms will come nonetheless.  So off into it I go to work, to cut metal and bend metal and make people happy.  Ciao for now.

There is never enough time

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There is never enough time to do everything you want to do.  That’s a given.  I remember in the movie Gladiator when the general asks his servant whether it is difficult being a servant.  The servant answers, “Sometimes…I do what I want to do.  The rest of the time I do what I have to do.”  This has become a kind of mantra for me.  I want to write creatively, but I know there are things I must do first.  And the older I get, the greater the pull of responsibility is.  How richly indulging it must be to live under the illusion that writing is one’s solemn duty to one’s society, its people, or to rabid fans.  That would be the only way to justify letting the gravitous things of life go by the wayside while I spin this fancy wheel for hours on end.  So I’ll spin for minutes instead; but in the end, I will spin.