1. Intern with county government for years.
2. Take “natural step” to build skills learned there and work in industry.
3. Be surrounded by / working with drill rigs constantly.
4. Quit industry.
5. Drill rig housing destroys bridge half mile from county building.
I can’t quite read these chicken entrails but it sure is an entertaining ride.
I’m sure most people saw a headline along the lines of “One in seven Americans living in poverty” today— but did anybody else catch how that was defined? $22050 a year for a family of four. In the 98122 zip code in Seattle (“From Broadway to Lake Washington, Denny to Yesler”), the median rent for a two bedroom apartment is $1343 a month according to some random rent calculating website. That leaves $5934 a year— $494 a month— for, what, groceries, utilities, medical care— never mind insurance, education, etc etc. I find thinking about that a lot more useful than an abstracted “one in seven.”
0 0 x 0 0 0 0
It’s also crushing to think about how many are just above the cut— there but for the grace of a statistic wonk’s technical definition go they. Crushing more so to think of all this happening during a time when some have so obscenely much.
I saw this on a car in the Southern County the other day:
Big ups for that one— easily my favorite since “ABOLISH CORPORATE PERSONHOOD.”
That’s what I thought to myself when I saw the headline “Fungus hits Afghan opium poppies” on the BBC News site tonight.
I wasn’t particularly surprised, then, to have “British and US accused of poppy plague warfare” be the other result in Google News.
Today, in the Southern County, I shared a bus stop with, I think, three generations of one family. The daughter— twenty, 350 pounds, manic and eye-darty, wearing revealing clothing (revealing, of course, tramp stamp-esque body art). Swearing about how “fine, they’ll get fucking frozen pizzas if (her Mom)’s sick of macaroni and cheese!” The mom— I thought a sister at first (I thought the daughter older and the Mom younger) but later guessed thirty-five, heavily make-uped, matching body art, matching weight, huge (twenty centimeter wide) bruises on her lower legs. Wearing sunglasses; couldn’t figure out how to get her Mom onto the bus wheelchair ramp. The grandmother— sheen of dementia, smiling at nothing, mid-sixties, wheelchair, right leg in a cast (at a twenty degree angle towards her starboard side), top inexplicably buttoned down to reveal Victoria’s Secret-style push-up bra. It was a definite Stare At The Ground kind of situation.
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