This is the amazing thing about rabid global economic recessions combined with volatile environmental collapses combined with a tasty national identity crisis combined with a truly historic, revolutionary president combined with a gnawing sense that our species might not be long for this world after all combined with the overwhelming sense that something, somewhere, something big and meaty and interesting and maybe even profoundly and butt-shakingly unexpected, has got to give.
A tiny example, signifying nothing: California state parks. They say our new, brutally slashed budget means that upwards of 100 of our beloved public pastures will just up and close. No hiking, no camping, no poison oak, no pissing in the wind. They say, furthermore, that Mexican pot cartels are already gleefully swooping into these selfsame parks and cranking up pot production to “epidemic” proportions, simply because the government can no longer afford to monitor and police them, and it’s prime growin’ land and, well, why the hell not?
Really, we as a country haven’t really been this unstable, this uncertain of who we are and where we fit into the world since we first split from England to go off on our own and slaughter some Indians and invent pornography and discover Starbucks.