Made In America

If there were ever any doubts about the culture that spawned me, my post yesterday settled the matter. I was whiny (about the half-imagined threat to my precious little scraps of entitlement) in the way that only a Caucasian American Male Blogger can be - in fact, to come off any more ludicrously self-centered and pathetically childish, I'd have to also be Upper Class, own a house, and have a Master's Degree on top of it all. I can't believe I actually lost sleep last night over a 5-hour-a-week "job".

Speaking of which: Last night I dreamt I was in Italy, waiting for my wife and Xander Harris to get back from the-errand-that-will-save-the-world. I got bored while waiting for them in the passenger seat, so I got out my keys, reached over and started the music playing. Or so I thought. Instead, apparently, I actually started the engine. The car rolled backwards, executed a 90 degree turn into traffic, rolled uphill, and off the end of a pier. Sarah and Xander rushed to my aid just a little too late. Zeppo that I was, I found myself powerless to do anything worthwhile. Changing gears and putting on the parking brake didn't do anything. Climbing into the drivers seat and stepping on the brake was likewise ineffective. The one smart thing I could have done - jump out of the car before it fell into the dark depths of the ocean - did not occur to my slumbering self. The metaphor was pretty freaking obvious - except for the Italy angle, which still puzzles me.