The Gravy Railcart

Let Walmart destroy my home like a Vogon constructor fleet. Here there be dragons. Here there be drugs. Here there be apathy, in excess of Health Canada’s limits. I could almost go anti-hippie. No, I couldn’t. But there’s not much attaching me to my town anymore. It’s never good to become dependant on one or two people for your social life, people that inevitably disappoint. I need new friends. New taverns. But I also need new associations. A new life. Maybe I’ll start by cutting my hair.

I’d quit my job right now and move to Kansas to live with Desiree, but I’m clinging to the stability of my paycheck. Finding employment, for Hippie Craque, was like finding Atlantis. Still is. Which is why it seems a miraculous fluke that I found the modest market niche I currently tolerate. I’m horrified at the notion of throwing that away and having to look again. Another Atlantis? Two in one lifetime?

No, better to go with the bird in the hand. Better to stay on the gravy train. Well, the gravy railcart. The gruelcart. Not as grueling as those poor saps who work full days. I wouldn’t become one of them if I could help it. I’d pick fruit in Midwest American orchards with my fellow illegal immigrants, mostly Mexicans, but I’d only do it five hours a day. Because I value free time over money.

No, I’m not a workaholic and I’m proud of that. You can call it my Canadian values, or maybe, deep down, genetically, my flaccid eurocommie ethos. I should have been a Greek philosopher fag. I kicked work before I was born, I’m off the stuff. I’d rather walk. My name is Hippie Craque, and I’m a walkaholic. Sure, come after me, drag me back to your concentration camps so you can put me to work mining Antarctica where my only pleasure will be getting loaded from the recycled piss of Argentinian shamans drunk on fermented Penguin stew. But you’ll have to catch me first. I should warn you, I’m a racewalking champion. I can do 50k standing on my custom-designed head. I got a trophy from Videlectix!

By the way, I stubbed my toe at the Bakery yesterday, so naturally my life is in shambles. A shambles? Or shambles? Regardless, I’m continuing, valiantly, to inform you of my travails. So I’m taking this opportunity to request donations. I just – sniff – don’t think I can keep writing the commentary you so enjoy here without immediate financial reward. Cash, credit, gold bullion, silver pinecones, Reichmarks, Nolan Ryan rookie cards, and sexual favors are all accepted. Which is why you’ll find a Paypal button up my pretentious fucking ass. Let’s see if we can raise $50 000 by the end of July. All donors will receive a signed copy of a rare lost chapter from “Original Sin” where Jamie snaps out of her Long Island hallucination to realize she’s Christ dying on the cross, and an exclusive Hippie Craque tote bag.

Goddamn those donation-seeking blogwhores annoy me. Stop threatening me with the sharp end of your faux-charity freelance and get a column in a New York culture rag already. Everyone else has.