I posted last week about a woman who banks with I.N.G. who for some reason last Thursday acted like she was my boss, clearly under the delusion that she possesses some sort of authority to grant me permission to take the computer she'd just vacated, the same way she did with a guy she stood with. I should mention here that what's significant about that woman and the guy, is that they did not sit on the bench that is the usual waiting line, the one in front of the library database-only computers. He sat on the bench directly in front of the computer I was standing at as she stood facing me before giving him the nod when the computer came open. By the way--and you've probably figured this out--an easy way to I.D. her use of computer #301 is that it came immediately before mine.
This morning, I noticed some folks sitting at the most distant table from me, the one wayyyy off to the right nearest to where employees enter and exit the counter. There are 2 reasons I find these folks to be significant. The first is that I noticed the woman in this video turn head to look directly at me. Secondly, and more importantly, was that while she was waiting for the rest room, the guy at their table, who was facing the right side of the shop and therefore had is back to me, turned completely around, looked directly at me, and turned back. Most importantly though, how did she manage to get so confused finding her way back to her table? Right after I clicked off the video, she headed right back across to her table and they got up and left.
She was the passenger in the car. The other girl drove. There was someone in the back, but I'm not sure if it was the guy at the table or not:
This was between 10:00 and 10:15am. It's a light blue Mazda.
You know, I just love my morning coffee at Peet's. For some reason, I like the crowd there. You get to know the faces. The vast majority of the crowd is made up professionals working nearby that don't seem all pent up with a whole lot of anger. It's refreshing. This morning, right around 10am, I noticed a face that stood out for some reason:
Why did she block her face? More importantly, how did she even notice I was shooting video of her? My camera doesn't even look like a camera. What's most inexplicable, though, is that she walked up to the window and snapped a shot of me with her phone between separate displays of her middle finger. LOL! Take as many pics of me as you want and go home and look at 'em while you enjoy your dildo. What are else are you going to do with it? Photoshop my face into some incriminating pics? It's already been done to a very serious degree and failed. But if you love spinning your wheels so much, go ahead and give it your best shot.
In regard to yesterday's significant surprise event, I would like to mention a few things. I get the feeling that maybe I saw another of Paola buddies walk by me with a look of satisfaction with Paola's reaction to my camera. Please--allow me once again to free you from the chains of delusion.
We'll start with a lesson about motion picture. Please, pay attention, ladies: In film and video, what you're seeing is a series of still images, each depicting a single instant in the ongoing action. As they flash by at a rapid rate, an illusion of motion is created. In film, there are 24 individual photos, known in the biz as "frames," that run by in one second. The rate in video is 30 per second. Wild, huh? Therefore, to say that one second is enough to identify someone, would actually be a bit of an understatement since the truth is that one thirtieth of a second would actually suffice.
Secondly, the first journalism class I ever took was a journalism law class that talked about privacy and photography. Basically, on public outdoor space a person is allowed to take a photograph of anything else in public that they choose. The rules are different for celebrities, but I don't recall anyone I've caught on camera existing anywhere near that realm. The crux of the argument of photo privacy hinged on a suggested scenario in which someone on a public sidewalk gets a shot of inside someone's home with a telephoto lens by peeping through the "crack in the blinds." Now if Paola was completely innocent and I concocted a bunch of crazy, absurd stuff about her, she might be able to go to court and have a chance. But her actions on camera undeniably suggest she's got something to hide, not to mention the fact that nothing I wrote about her is inherently defamatory. Too bad, Paola. Plus, we were both on outdoor public space. Please, ladies--take me to court so I can spank your asses right out in the open.
On a separate note, upon leaving the library at the end of the day yesterday, I went over to the nearby BART station to drink in the social defiance that sets San Francisco apart. Over a year ago, when I first started living out of a van, I was showering at the Salvation Army in the T.L. While mingling through the Anonymous semi-fracas, I ran into this guy who used to show up nearly every morning at the gym to harass me with Christian rhetoric:
Black, white, yellow, green, male, female--if you're harassing me, we've got a problem. I'm agnostic and I'll stay that way.
I suspect it's possible that I've been inaccurately blaming all radical feminists for what's going on. I'm trying to be fair here. I certainly don't have a problem with feminists in general; just the ones that for some odd reason think everything--or anything, for that matter--I do is their business. I get the feeling that the women still paying the most attention to me might be a separate little niche--the angry, "kind of heavy set" niche--just like Katlin McGaw, just like pscyho lawyer bitch who accused me and the vaast majority of the women who stalk me. At the demonstation, I ran into a woman interning with The Recorder. She was taking some photos, but I think she said she's interning as an editor. As we chatted, a "kind of heavy set" girl tried to step between us and say, "Hey, what's going on?" as if she just wanted to talk about the event. She's lucky I didn't get video of her. I learned long ago that the goal of these women is to prevent me from having a relationship with a woman. I saw Ms. Activist give the photographer a little nod and a gesture with her hand out of the corner of my eye before she nearly ran off. She was speed-walking, big-time.
I came to S.F. expecting a fair shake. I made an attempt to start at the very bottom where my skills might come in handy, volunteering for a struggling non-profit. I didn't get a warm welcome there.
I get the feeling quite a bit of precedent has been set in this state regarding photographers and videographers being attacked in public. Again, unless you're a celebrity or can prove I'm using your photo to make some kind of financial gain, ya got no case. Here's the deal, ladies: Either forget I exist or I charge Paola with assault. It's that simple.
P.S. As I said earlier, I would love to keep on playing this game with you, but I've got some pressing physical concerns that I don't want to get too far out of hand. Also, if it wasn't for Subway and the quart of milk I drink every night, I suspect that the amount of BK and McDonald's in my diet would have killed me months ago. Let's see if I can't bring this thing to screeching halt once and for all:
That video of Paola is quite telling. Add in the fact that another of your operatives just happened to be there at the right time yesterday, add in the fact that she revealed herself by making the "sex offender" comment, add in the fact that she logged into a computer, and add in the fact that Paola went berserk* in the library in front of a bunch of witnesses, and you've got blockbuster event in the evolution of this whole atrocity. To that end...
Yesterday, after publishing the post, I headed out for lunch. On my way back to the library, I crossed Larkin at the northwest corner of the library's little block there, with City Hall behind me. When I hit the sidewalk and turned right, a guy stepped in front of me and continued to walk at my pace about 10 feet directly in front of me. He was medium height with a somewhat stalky build. His hair was parted conservatively and neatly on the side. He wore dark glasses, a dark blue blazer and stone or tan Dockers. He walked confidently. You might even say he was swaggering. In general, I would characterize his demeanor as serious, business-like, official. I swear to you, it was like he was escorting me. How narcissistic of me, right? It must have been one of my schizo episodes, because if he was escorting me, he would have completed the job. Instead, when we got to the bottom of the pretty curved staircase, he took a sharp right turn and headed straight into the security office.
P.P.S. Thanks, Paola.
Go to the Youtube page and check out the first comment under this video:
*The real beauty of the Paola video is in the fact all along I have been portrayed as a violent person and subject to various attempts to bait me into lashing out at someone to get me arrested. How's that workin' out?
The orginal participating Michigan fan said that to me way back. I can only assume that if the whole thing is indeed a test, it is one of whether or not the subject would actually stand for all this shit. I've been running on that assumption ever since. Whatever else happens along the way and revelations about the distant past are incidental as far as I'm concerned.
I've run into a lot of interesting characters during my time here in S.F., some from other countries, some from here. These psychotic women track me where ever I go and when I was still wrapped up in the mind control, I'd fall for it when they would approach me very nicely to make an opportunity to hit me with some kind of covert crazy lecture.
One of them was a woman named Paola. She spewed a lot of crazy supernatural talk and dropped a few hints referring to things about me I hadn't told her of, and liked to talk about karma. There have been lots of insults to karma directed at me in the form of claims that this intentional harassment and stalking is somehow a product of it. The very notion is a violation of karma itself, something that if real, is not something that is consciously dictated by an individual or group.
I'd "coincidentally" run into Paola a few times. The third time we met, we even had a Chinese dinner together on the edge of China town. It was during that conversation that she revealed to me that she's a feminist, without my prompting. At that point, I decided it would be better if I didn't talk to Paola again. After leaving the place, we ended up walking up Post street. Upon approaching Union Square, I intended to go straight and she wanted to turn left. She tried to convince of some non-sense that I must turn left and go her way as it was the better route to take, as if I can't make such a decision for myself. How silly. That night she reminded me that she'd invited me to "The Miracle Center", a kind of fringe religious group. I tried to tell her I'm not religious and I was very nice about it when I could have just said, "I don't believe in all that hocus-pocus. She persisted and said, "You must complete the process." Process?What process, exactly? Her question implies that I had started some process. Try as I might--and I have a pretty good memory--I just can't recall agreeing to take part in any "process" that ends in some Italian or French feminist who looks like a guy inviting me to a hokey fly-by-night crazy religion in San Francisco after a couple years of getting harassed and stalked by her psycho friends.
I think it was the next time I saw her that I indicated I did not want her to talk to me any more. Snice then, I've seen her here a few times. Today I saw her talking to a guy in the library, grabbing him by the arm, etc. He looked like he didn't want to talk to her. I ended up catching some very, very interesting video of Paola:
After she flipped out, she followed me into the library. She was positively hysterical. Right around 1:00, I ran into her on the third floor and while she was yelling at the librarian, a woman at, again, express computer #301, turned and interjected a comment insinuating that I am a "sex offender." She was in her mid 50s, I'd say. She had blonde shoulder length hair and wore and orange Giants shirt with the website on the back. More importantly, she was logged in to computer #388 at exactly 1:25. I'd seen her before and suspected her.
I thought we put this dumb-ass sex offender shit to rest. I am positively no sex offender. I've got a chunk of change coming my way--more than enough to pay for a consultation with a lawyer. Because of today's comment, I am going to make it a point to once again pursue a lawyer to deal with crazy pycho bitch lawyer's list of false allegations against me, which, I repeat once again, was sealed upon corroboration of my story. I get the feeling that many of you ladies involved are aware that my name has been cleared completely. I suggest you all get on the same page. I will never, ever stop pursuing justice and an end to such insinuations. Never.
Of course, today's event will be great for the book.
And to the half-dozen or so folks with hair exactly like mine--something I'd never seen before--who I just happened to run into a few weeks ago, I want to let you know that I intend to switch to a dry look to keep it old-school they way you guys do, unless I do end up back in Manhattan. I admire the hell out of ya for wavin' it like a flag like that. I bet you were even wearing it that way in the 80s. I've always been leery about letting mine bush out because I was always alone in regard to that trait and combined with my height, it can be a little overwhelming to people. It's the epitome of old-school cool. Bravo, I say!
Haven't I done enough? When does this all end? I thought maybe someone insinuated I'm the "black sheep." Really? As I see it, I'm carrying the torch rather high. Maybe you haven't heard my whole story. Let's do lunch and I'll bring ya up to speed, shall we? I've got a tooth that's killing me and my knee is like a bag of marbles. (Am I on the right track, here?)
I picked up on the back-and-fourth emotional swing input from retails clerks a long time ago, guys. When you still had me completely wrapped up in the mind control, it worked pretty good, but I'm way past it now that I've unraveled the whole thing. When a counter clerk who once made a comment insuating that I'm "in custody" makes an effusively flattering comment about my looks right after a guy who looks like he just walked out of The Matrix followed me into the shop, I kinda pick up on that. It's a joke and none of it effects me. The query goes out this week.
Things are much, much better than a year ago and even much better than just a couple of months ago. But there are still some folks following me around and making odd comments and just acting kind of strange. I learned along the way that that insane angry-attorney, Aileen Wuornos fan with a medicine cabinet full of psycho drugs I had a not so pleasant encounter with had made an itemized complaint against me, apparently detailing various different kinds of abuse, possibly including rape. I've been accused of some heinous things. I also learned that my story about her was corroborated and the complaint was properly sealed.
Throughout my research I encountered a term I don't use much which isn't surprising now that I see the source of it: Femi-Nazi.
Indeed, the stalking events still occurring have been reduced to a trickle, but I won't be happy until it's all stopped completely. "Happy" is a very appropriate operative term here as it has been clear, and, in fact, directly indicated by a few, that one of the main goals of all of this is simply to keep me as miserable as possible. Well...
I've been making it a point to capture on video as many folks as I suspect to be a part of it as possible, but sometimes, like last night, it slips my mind. Last night a woman showed up at the 3rd floor express computers at the SFPL between 6 and 8 pm with a guy who was just a wreck. (Actually, I'm pretty sure it was between 7 and 8, but just to be sure, it wouldn't hurt to check the video for the whole 2 hours.) He sat down and she stood near him. When a computer came open, she kind of nodded as if giving him permission to take it. At one point, she gave me a stern look and other things about her body language made it clear that she was obviously there for me and probably is a "Femi-Nazi."
Fortunately, I knew the guy at the computer next to the one she ended up with so I went over to chat with him for a minute. Also fortunately, I'm a pretty observant guy. Sure enough, she was reading an article on line about a rape. She also visited the ING Bank site and logged in. Her e-mail address is gld_elite@yahoo. The first three letters may have been in a different order and the g may have been a q. It's also possible the "elite" was first and then "_ldg", but I don't think so. She was wearing tight, dark blue jeans, a matching jean jacket, and a shirt with horizontal thin pink and wider white stripes. She wore her blond hair up and was light complected. She was somewhat tall; 5', 10", maybe. She wore medium-dark brown calf-high leather boots. She had a small pocket notebook open to a page with one note in it that looked like an address, but I didn't catch what it said. When she finished with the computer, though I was standing right there, she was thoughtful enough to let me know it was available. Isn't that sweet? She then nervously ran over the elevator and pushed the button. After she left, I asked the guy who she was and he said he didn't know. He was kind of tall and wearing all black clothes and a black knit cap without the bottom edge folded up and the top kind of hanging back a bit. His shoes were really raggedy and he was either wearing two different socks or only had one on. The skin on his face was noticeably pinkish and kind of peeled. He had a very full brown beard and when I talked to him, he acted very nervous and disoriented. I don't recall seeing him before. I promise you, ladies: you are going to learn to leave me alone.
Despite a recent realization regarding a person involved in my situation from quite a few years ago that has shed a different light on my personal situation, I am compelled to live in the here-and-now reality of the little joke or game I've been the subject of. I have immediate concerns--my teeth are a wreck and so is my leg. If it weren't for those 2 things, I'd be happy to continue living this way, baiting all you poor schmucks and bitches (I didn't use to talk this way. It's a bummer. But you deserve it. I call a spade a spade.) into identifying yourselves like Ms. Tough Girl did last night. But alas, my broken tooth took a turn for the worse last night. My physical ailments dictate that I must pursue and end to this game the best way I can figure. Again, if all of the fantastic impending things that have been suggested like loads of money, etc., are indeed real, until they materialize, I will continue to move forward.
It didn't take me nearly as long to bang out the book query (Forget that case of Fullers--I'm saving it for the book.) and it came out completely different and much better than I thought. There are just so many different angles to take. Think all that stuff from my bio-metric file you use to bait me in to conversations to fuck with my head is so irresistible, like all the models doing a runway walk while crossing the street in my direction at exactly the right time? Teasing me's fun, right? I promise you: in terms of irresistibly, all of those things are an absolute "joke" compared to the query, which I am going to positively fucking rain on the NYC publishing world. The opening chapter and the query will be a short teaser about my brother and brother-in-law ending with Lisa's quote, "He's trying to kill you." Awesome, right? Chapter two, the first full chapter (Ladies first, right?), will be a detailed description of my experience with angry lawyer chick from the cupboard full of psycho pills to the book about cannibals to the hint that she was listening to my phone calls. I am positively stoked.
Keep right on fuckin' with me.
Finally, I should note that I am absolutely against rape. I've never had a need for it as women are almost always the aggressor with me, just as psycho lawyer chick was. Guys convicted of rape in a fair trial with witnesses and lawyers and all that fun stuff guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution should be punished severely.
Over the past couple years, I had been buying the cheapest headphones I could just for the sake of saving pennies. I went through a couple sets because the connection in the jack went bad, but deferring the cost was a good thing and the sound on them wasn't terrible. I bought a new set today for about 6 dollars from a store other than where I'd purchased the previous sets. They were a different brand and it turned out they sounded terrible, so I took them back. Things aren't quite as desperate as they were a year ago, so I figured I'd splurge in the hopes of better quality and durability. They had a pair made by JVC for 12 bucks. It's a good name so I figured it was worth a shot. Lo and behold they nearly blew my ears out and still are as I type (Luna, Indian Summer), and for the prices, the quality of the sound is pretty awesome. It's not tinny at all which I'd say is the most common problem with cheap headphones that fit in your ear.
Anyway... did I mention that part of what these folks who won't identify themselves have been doing is to make me feel like I'm always surrounded by the enemy? The fact is, I'm not positive who the main culprit in the pscyhological torture I've been subject to is as no one has openly claimed any responsibility. All things considered, though, my best guess is that it is the F.B.I. that has been the leading force in making my life miserable over the past few years, apparently working in conjunction with other extremist groups while making a complete mockery the U.S. Constitution. I don't know for sure, but I've got blame it all on someone. In regard to being surrounded by the enemy, they do stupid shit like throwing guys in Michigan jerseys at me. Sometimes they just kind of materialize and pop out from around corners just at the right moment to look at me. Oooooooo. About a month ago, I guess, a light-skinned black guy in such a shirt came into the library and made a pouty, mocking face at me. As I said, it could all be a charade by the C.I.A. or whoever, but I have no choice but to assume F.B.I. Lots of people are getting quite a kick out of fucking with John and watching him suffer. Hmmmmm...
Well, I got a small piece of good news yesterday and wrote someone an e-mail about it, which was read, like all of my "private" communications, by several different people, but primarily the FBI, I'm sure. The e-mail mentioned my experience with this lofty institution of integrity and efficiency and my 20 years of blacklisting by extreme right-wingers. Sure enough, right on que, that Michigan fan showed up, but this time I didn't notice that he mocked me at all. In fact, he didn't look too happy. He sat down at a table where a moderately attractive light-skinned black woman who I'd never seen here before was sitting. He soon after moved to a different table. I remind you: the seed of all of this is an interracial relationship from twenty-plus years ago. I was listening to my new 12-dollar headphones(I'm pretty sure it was The Song Remains the Same) when she walked by. She wasn't on the phone and I saw her lips utter one sentence as I faintly heard it. That woman--a light-skinned black women who quite obviously is either the product of a mixed relationship, or one generation removed--said as she blew by me at my computer, "Good luck finding a job."
Hmmmm...I'm I to take that as confirmation that the F.B.I. is taking an active role in denying me life, liberty and happiness? Really now? I've never even been arrested, let alone convicted. How fascinating.
People have called me an idealist at various points throughout my adult life. I think maybe it's in my blood. Maybe it's just an unconscious attempt to be as unlike my brother as possible. When family arguments came up, he would say, "There you go, taking the high road again." I have a natural inclination against corruption and at this juncture I find myself compelled to narrow the field of groups I might offer my alliance according to how little they desecrate the U.S. Constitution. I don't like extremist groups and mobs, but at least they aren't making a big bullshit show about what they really do. Furthermore, and more to the point, going by what I've experienced over the past 3 years and the fact that I'm forced to assume who the main source is, I can safely say that there is no group that comes anywhere near the F.B.I. in terms of not just descrating, but positively defecating on civil rights guarenteed in the consitution, a document they're sworn to uphold.
Some stranger recently mentioned that soon I'll be "happy as a lark." When's that going to happen? A couple other folks actually insinuated that I'm lucky? Oh, really? I don't see it. In the meantime, I'll keep on course and assume that if all the fantastic things that have been suggested are true they will come up and bite me in the ass. I have no knowledge of consciously, willfully, or knowingly volunteering for any of this shit as it has been suggested I did. I have reaped no benefit whatsoever from the torture I've been subject to as has also been suggested. None. And you won't fool me into thinking so the same way you can't fool me into thinking I'm guilty of any of the positively absurd allegations.
My full time job is pursuing a book deal. If someone's got a better idea and can approach me openly and directly like a normal human being, I'm open to suggestions. I tried volunteering in S.F. to network and got fucked with there. In addition, I might pursue opportunities for writers is criminal defense law. Think I might have some "luck finding a job" that way? Hmmmm...I wonder if those kinds of lawyers have associations. Oh, I've got so much to keep me busy these days.
A Marine I ran into at a blog club Meetup here in S.F. insinuated that I am an enemy of the state. I wonder how he feels about closet abolitionist, Thomas Jefferson, once called, "The greatest democrat...America has yet produced."
Would an enemy of the state write this (before they tried to destroy his mind)?...
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Our Quiet Birthday
When I was a kid growing up in Niles, the anxious quiet of fading spring was broken every year by the sharp crack of a relatively small amount of gunpowder. For an early teen with an uncontrollable and ever-rising need for his mischief to be tinged with danger, Memorial Day just didn’t seem to signal the arrival of freedom season here in the steel valley with quite the same urgency as the first perfectly startling bang of an M-80.
There was an unspoken code of fireworks etiquette agreed upon by the neighborhood amateur explosive experts. It dictated that the firing of the season’s inaugural pre-Independence Day class C noisemaker was sacred. The window for graduation parties was closing fast. Summer jobs were a week old. We waited for it.
Anyone living between Taft and Main possessing the chutzpah to take it upon himself to kick off 3 weeks of glorious, explosive fun in the name of independence (I’m proud to say that on more than one occasion it was I.) could be counted on to be enough of a devotee to select the appropriate noisemaker in accordance with the code. A bottle rocket was as good as an M-80. A firecracker was acceptable, though a bit perfunctory. It would have to be a pack of firecrackers. A screaming bottle rocket was gauche. Roman Candle with report is an excellent choice. And it had to be during the day. I always preferred the bottle rocket. If the launch site were near enough, the initial f-sshaaaa on blast-off and ensuing moments of silence provided just the right amount of added suspense before a crisp, satisfying pop finally, yet somehow still unexpectedly, echoed briefly in the sky.
From that first anonymous mid-June call to rip open the Black Cats (Black Cat bottle rockets were loud, but lacked greatly in range.), the aural barrage would continue on a daily basis, gradually building to the triumphant climax on the night of the 4th before slowing throughout the days to follow. Occasionally a call-and-answer situation would arise – a couple guys who probably didn’t even know each other trading loud ones in a mutual confirmation of mischievous camaraderie.
We felt it was our duty. It was as much a part of small town American summer as a cool glass of lemonade – a chance to be patriotic and feel like we were getting away with something at the same time. What a rush. As long as it didn’t get out of hand and the neighbors didn’t complain, the authorities would generally look the other way. It seemed like everybody had them anyway. If the police were to go around busting people solely for shooting off fireworks, they’d all be working overtime and missing the fun themselves. So it went on – low-level anarchy overlooked in the name of democracy. How great is that?
This year, those fading days of spring were relatively silent in this blue-collar town. A deafening hush pervaded the valley in late June, and the in the days leading up to the 4th, the sparseness of neighborhood explosions quietly confirmed that something was wrong. Finally, as the sun fell on Independence Day, relief came with a comfortable steady booming in the sky.
The disparity between freedom season 2008 and those of the past, at least from an aural spectator’s standpoint, was impossible to miss. But getting to work on $4.00-a-gallon gas – if you’re lucky enough to have a job here – and feeding the family on groceries whose prices have also gone the roof doesn’t leave much budget-room for fireworks. The Warren Tribune-Chronicle recently reported that one third of Trumbull County residents will receive some form of public assistance in 2008, a 25% increase over last year – a 50% increase since 2002. Combine that with 50-dollar fill-ups and it’s no wonder so many of us couldn’t even spring for a pack of ladyfingers.
It’s still not clear exactly who is to blame for the fuel crisis – domestic big oil or the Middle East Producers. I’m inclined to think it’s 50/50. And, of course, it is the price of gas that is in turn making everything else we need to live more and more expensive. Yet still very few prominent voices are heard stating the fact that our addiction to foreign oil is the biggest, strongest buckle holding us in this straitjacket of a recession.
T. Boone Pickens is the only person of influence yet to talk in real terms about a real plan – finally. Says Pickens, “We import 70 percent of our oil at a cost of $700 billion a year - four times the annual cost of the Iraq war.” The Texas oil magnate, who describes our current situation as an “emergency we can’t drill our way out of.” has taken the reigns on developing wind power as a long term solution that will offset our oil consumption greatly enough to really make a difference in the long run. With calm passion in his voice, Pickens outlines the myriad advantages of wind power – limitless source, no exhaust, ect. - and the major obstacle: distribution. It’s not a matter of whether or not it can be distributed efficiently, though. It’s a matter of finance, commitment, and time. Whether or not you agree on the long term potential of wind power, there’s little room to argue with Pickens’ refreshingly frank language regarding the reality of the critical role oil consumption plays in our current economic dilemma.
The muted Independence Day season of small-town America quietly underscores the way the price of gas has changed the way we live. To be sure, high school kids getting to blow stuff up for nearly a month is a luxury, but the seasons past I refer to include the early and mid 80s. We knew we were in a recession then. A Dollar-fifty seemed like a lot to pay for a gallon of gas then, but it wasn’t nearly as far ahead of the inflation curve as it is now. Coping with the new frontier of 4-dollar-a-gallon gas has pervaded every aspect of our lives, and like it or not, put a damper on the way we celebrate the birth of our nation.
