Welcome to Gaia! ::

And people wonder why the crime rate is so high in NYC. As I sit on this innocent park bench devoted to the ASPCA society watching the traffic rush by in an imagined sense of urgency, I think to myself, "What compels us to test and break the law?". The answer is a sweet and simple "nothing". It's there. But we need to make sure it really exists. So we test it.

Then came that particular brand of criminal rebel that suited Jared Levee best. Jared was the pinnacle of the street gang stereotype, driving down Main Street in his pitch black "Six-Four" with 3 inches of acrylic paint covering the lead filled originality of the color, and the cliched tribal scrawling decals that probably meant nothing at all. The pointlessness of spinner rims that cost four grand apiece only seems to be emphasized when the outrageously ignorant hubcaps are stolen. But then, isn’t it amazing people fall for things like that?

Wait, let me rewind a bit.

My name is irrelevant. Call me Ronnie. I work at the New York Int'l Airport as a security guard. The red posters hung on the security gates proclaiming a national state of emergency gives a perpetual sense of awareness to throng of pedestrians sipping their copyrighted Starbucks decaf lattes. To me it signifies a raise in pension just as much as the raise in uncooperative paranoia. People have this thing about having their personal belongings inspected even if they have nothing outside the norm or legal, as if any minute we'd uncover a porno magazine or a Swastika and raise it for the world to see while we lead them away in handcuffs to a secret interrogation room. Nothing sews the seeds of desperation and paranoid trepidations like an international crisis. It's all beautiful in it's own right. Or so it goes, to quote the infamously wise Kurt Vonnegut Jr. with the catchy little explanation mark. I often somewhat cutely refer to my station as Slaughterhouse-Five, noting the roman numeral “V” marking the isle. Likewise, we process and distribute the meat products through the country, making sure they’re clean and uncontaminated, shoving them through poor conditions that they’re too stupid or ignorant to realize is utterly pointless. They see the protective measures, they feel secure, and thus all remains placid. Until that one unthoughtful business man is reluctant to entrust his Rolex watch to government officials because he saw a news cast about airport security plundering one's personal effects unabashedly. The ensuing alarm raises looks and contained pandemonium, each person sweating out the inexpensive wine their benefactor had probably contributed to suede them in standing in line with Al Qaeda. Again, or so it goes.

I'm at a lack for beautiful words or inspiring statements. My life is on a constant loop play. Double Cheeseburger, all the condiments, hold the pickles. I stand in line, waving my wand across peoples bodies, and hope it beeps. If it beeps, maybe some cataclysmic explosion will wipe out the entire line. Life insurance pays double if I die in the work field. Starbucks. Double espresso vanilla mocha, whip cream on top and a fine powder of cinnamon. Even the latte is a fundamental part of the menial clockwork ghetto rigging's of life. I wake up, 6 am, I go to work for 8 hours, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. I am slave to the IKEA mundane and yet expressive creativeness. My cute little coffee table in the shape of a yin-yang Taoism sitting beside a black-and-white pinstripe sofa, positioned nicely in front of a 62 inch plasma screen TV with the glowing TOSHIBA brand name. I hate every luxurious minute of it. I want to develop an alter ego. A schizophrenic companion who walks, talks, dances, flirts, ********, all like I want to. Break the chains of society in favor of pretensions. Perfect for drab stories of Pulp Fiction remakes. I wonder if being committed is as easy as it seems…