The myth that we only work six hours a week (and that we get our summers “off’) is a heinous lie. When do you think we learn the things that we’re teaching you?
These days, I crave the kind of job where I can hammer nails into things; pick heavy boxes up and move them around; run heavy, loud machinery; and come home after eight hours to a cold six-pack and some TV.
In some places, the Word matters. It lives in a tangible physical world where when you speak your truth, you will be exiled; dispossessed; brutally beaten; shot dead on the street ...
There are some terrifying thoughts lurking down there, kind of like when you are out by the creek and flip over a rock and see all the creepy-crawlies underneath. Homicidal urges, illicit desires, feelings of guilt, revenge, or dread, tabooed thoughts about Apocalypse.
I am kind of thinking that bitcoins themselves are a cheap form of fiction, but considerably less interesting than a random short story by a mildly talented writer.
Unlike the majority of this column’s readers, I remember the first Earth Day.
I’ve always craved glory. My dream is to become a meme, or, better, to have someone make a hologram of me performing a duet with someone unspeakably famous. Like Tupac.
Campus is immaculate in a way that is only possible in human places devoid of people.
Amidst all this labwork, all this collaboration and experimentation, all this frenzy to publish and patent, is anyone asking why, if you students are the ones who have to produce all this new knowledge and solve all these problems, why you have to pay us?
Sometimes you get a glimpse into an alien world. Admittedly, just about anything is going to seem fresh after decades arguing with Russian writers.
