The last I heard from the good doctor he was on his way to Hawaii for what he called R & R. This was in July if my memory serves, mid-summer here on the Platinum Coast, the height of baseball season. July feels like a long time ago. I went by Duke’s place in Mission Canyon a few times between Halloween and Christmas to see if he had returned, but each time the rustic house looked deserted and my knock on the front door went unanswered.
I figured Duke was out of the country, shacked up with a new woman and up to his eyeballs in difficulties. I’ve never understood exactly what women see in Duke. He’s almost an official senior citizen, opinionated, unsentimental, obdurate, a devoted abuser of booze and illicit drugs, and on the radar of the FBI.
And yet, women fall for him.
But perhaps I’m being unfair. Duke can be charming and amusing when it suits him, and at heart I think he’s an old fashioned romantic. He’s also the only man I’ve ever known who reads Plato for fun.
A couple of days ago I dropped my daughter off at a play date not far from Duke’s house, and on my way home stopped by to see if there was any sign of him. A gardener’s pick-up bristling with tools was parked in the driveway next to Duke’s black Prius. From the back of the house I heard the whine of a chainsaw. Diffused sunlight filtered through the oak trees, glinting off the feathers of a large crow that hopped along the ridge of the roof.
The front door was unlocked so I let myself in, calling out, “Hey, Doc” as I did. I usually found the doctor in his cluttered study off the foyer – the same room where he had botched his suicide attempt. The bullet hole in the ceiling hadn’t been repaired. I noticed that the desk was tidy and someone – certainly not Duke – had rearranged the books on his shelves. Duke must have hired a new housekeeper because the floor and countertops in the kitchen gleamed, and the odor of pine cleaner still lingered. I opened the big Sub-Zero refrigerator expecting to see a phalanx of Heineken bottles, but instead found a dozen bottles of Evian water. The crisper was full of fresh broccoli, asparagus, cauliflower, snap peas, radishes, kale, carrots and celery. There were no meat or dairy products to be found. No eggs, either.
I walked through the living room, noticing immediately the empty space on the wall where the 50” flat screen TV had hung, and down the hallway that led to the den and bedrooms. “Doc, where the hell are you? What’s with all the water and vegetables?”
As I neared the den the smell of sandalwood incense became stronger. I pushed the door open and carefully poked my head inside. The room had been redecorated, the walls stripped of paintings and framed photographs and painted the color of a ripe pomegranate; the ceiling was now the color of mustard. The comfortable leather sofa and chairs I had always admired were gone, and the hardwood floor had been replaced with tatami matting. The only piece of furniture was a low table on which sat a black teapot and two small cups, and a single stick of incense in a porcelain holder.
And there was Duke, sitting on a black meditation cushion in the center of the floor, back erect and eyes half-closed, clad in a brown monk’s robe. He was barefoot and had shaved his head. “Doc,” I said, “what the hell is going on?”
“Tang-o,” he said softly. “Take your shoes off and join me. Get a cushion from the closet.”
I tossed a purple cushion on the floor and sat down. Duke’s eyes were still half-lidded.
“How’s the family?” he asked.
“Good. Kids are driving us crazy, but that goes with the territory. Terry’s wonderful. I don’t have much to complain about.”
“And the job?”
“Status quo. Huge budget cuts, potential layoffs, furlough days. Where’ve you been the past six months?”
Duke opened his eyes, but otherwise remained as still as a statue, a stillness so complete that I found it unnerving. His brown eyes were as clear as I ever remembered seeing them, his appearance serene and peaceful, two states of being I had never associated him with. The transformation was astounding. This was the same man who once railed against the burgeoning American police state and advocated armed revolution!
“Traveling. Nepal. India. Japan. Searching for answers in the ancient world, following the footsteps of the masters through ashrams and monasteries. I experienced revelations, epiphanies and insights about the way I’ve lived my life, what I’ve done, what I’ve valued. The decision to renounce my former life and pursue a spiritual path came quite easily. Surprised?”
“Flabbergasted,” I said. “You quit the booze and weed cold turkey?”
A tiny smile played on Duke’s face. “Well, at first I tried to have it both ways. I thought I might ease into spiritual practice, meditate for an hour or two every day, take a couple of bong hits, and go about my business. Just like me to attempt to purify my monkey mind and then pollute it with weed and hours of CNN. That’s why I removed all the TV’s from the house. Swore off sex, too, believe it or not. That was many times harder than giving up TV.”
“This is freaking me out,” I said. “Doc, what happened to your sense of moral outrage?”
“It wasn’t taking me anywhere,” Duke said, “except in circles. I was constantly at war inside my own being. But swimming in my own pond was killing me.” He closed his eyes and paused, as if trying to bring up a memory. Outside the window, the gardener was raking leaves and singing to himself in Spanish. “Sooner or later,” Duke said, “one must drain the pond and allow it to be refilled with fresh water.”
“That sounds like a message from a fortune cookie.”
“Useful wisdom is usually simple,” Duke said. “Tell me, what’s happening in the world?”
I gave him a rundown on Syria and Egypt, the ratcheting tension between Iran, Israel and the United States, the still sluggish economy that was punishing the poor, and the latest goings on with the GOP candidates for president. He listened impassively, his eyes never leaving mine until I mentioned Rick Santorum’s sudden surge. The moment I did Duke’s calm and serenity evaporated, and a look of loathing settled on his face.
“Santorum! You’ve got to be kidding! The GOP must have a death wish. Santorum is a certifiable Christian crackpot. Leave it to him and he’d sew every vagina in the country shut.”
“Can’t trust a man who wears sweater vests,” I said.
Duke rose to his feet and began pacing around the room. “No surprise that Gingrich hit the skids. The more people see of Newt, the less they like him. Romney’s a piss-ant who will say anything he thinks will get him elected. But Santorum…how in hell…that stupid bastard once said on the record that he had no problem with homosexuality, only homosexual acts. Can you believe he said that? The man has the brainpower of a worm and the soul of a cockroach. How can such a pinhead be the frontrunner! Sweet Jesus! It’s unthinkable. It’s monstrous. It’s preposterous.”
I didn’t know what to tell him, other than that democracy is messy and unpredictable, particularly in difficult times when hope is a scarce commodity and the future looks uncertain and the incumbent political leaders appear corrupt and bumbling. People quite understandably look for a savior, someone who seems to know the way to go, what to do. Santorum’s religious rhetoric and Ozzie & Harriet worldview is reassuring and comforting to some people.
“To the barricades,” Duke suddenly yelled. “Let’s go!” He dashed out of the room, his brown robe flapping around his knees. “To the barricades before it’s too late.” I ran after him, sure he was having a flashback to Berkeley in the 60’s, to the days when he was young and believed that he and his peers had the power to change the world, eradicate poverty and bring the war in Vietnam to a halt. Before I could catch him he was out the front door. I saw him veer toward the gardener’s truck and grab a pitchfork from the back. Then he was again running at full tilt, heading for Mission Canyon Road in his bare feet.
“Doc,” I called. “There are no barricades. Drop the pitchfork.”
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Hypocrite's Ball
I own a Kindle Fire.
For work, I have use of an iPad and iPhone.
I admit these are remarkable devices, capable of all kinds of tasks and magic that just a few years ago was unthinkable or unattainable, from making the Brothers Karamazov -- among other books -- extremely portable, to answering e-mails, taking photographs, making notes, or playing Angry Birds while waiting in the doctor’s office.
I like the feel of the iPhone; it’s sleek and stylish, and its heft is solid and reassuring. I’ve got photographs of my kids on it, a few hundred songs, some useful apps.
My Kindle library spills over with digital editions from some of my favorite authors: Philip Roth, Walter Mosley, James Lee Burke, Shakespeare, Christopher Hitchens, Raj Patel, and Robert Scheer to name a few. My library is stored in the cloud, available whenever I want, and the volumes never gather dust or play host to silverfish.
My Kindle Fire, iPhone and iPad are arrayed on the table in front of me. As much as I admire them, I know these astounding gadgets are the products of Chinese workers, some of them very young, and some of them subject to dubious working conditions and treatment. I know what you’re thinking: why interject darkness into this otherwise upbeat tale of technological advancement. Why worry about some faceless workers on the far side of the world when here, on the fruited and blessed plain of America, we can purchase a Kindle Fire for $199 and an iPad for $500 or so?
Globalization isn’t our fault, right? It’s just the order of things, the logical result of “market” forces and trade agreements. It’s the reason we can buy so many of the things we need and enjoy at bargain prices; it’s why Wal-Mart and Costco thrive, and why Amazon wields enormous power.
Apple builds products in China because the work force is capable, cheap, plentiful and pliable. Annoying labor laws and costly environmental regulations are lax or nonexistent, and taken together these factors make China a manufacturing paradise, the sort of place corporate CEO’s have wet dreams about.
Apple claims to be unaware of any exploitation on the part of its Chinese contractors, but one would need to be deaf, blind and dumb to believe this. Coercion and exploitation hold labor costs down and push profits up.
Exploitation is the grease that makes globalization work and it doesn’t matter if the exploited are Mexican, Guatemalan, Vietnamese, or Chinese. Capital finds cheap labor the same way a Sidewinder missile finds its target. National borders are meaningless -- this is free trade, baby, not fair trade – and all rights and power and privilege are controlled and exercised by companies like Apple, HP and Dell.
The welfare of workers and the environment don’t factor into free trade equations; if they did, Old Navy might not exist.
Every time I buy a piece of clothing the first thing I do is look at the label to see where it was made, and invariably I find myself wondering about the people who made the item. Who are they? What are their working conditions like? How much are they paid? How many hours a day do they work?
A feel good aura surrounds Apple and Amazon, but that aura obscures a rapacious nature that leaves me unsettled. How much power is too much? Amazon plays hardball with book publishers, crushing the little ones, and forcing the big ones to make concessions. Small, local retailers cannot compete with Amazon’s economies of scale, its ubiquity and reach. It’s no less cutthroat than the days of Standard Oil and John D. Rockefeller.
My Kindle Fire, iPad and iPhone are mocking me. “You talk a good game,” they say, “but we dare you to take us out in the backyard and smash us to bits with an 8lb sledgehammer. Go on, put your principles into practice. Don’t be a hypocrite. If you’re so concerned about Chinese workers do something about it. C’mon, brother, talk is cheap. Bring the hammer down.”
I am a hypocrite.
For work, I have use of an iPad and iPhone.
I admit these are remarkable devices, capable of all kinds of tasks and magic that just a few years ago was unthinkable or unattainable, from making the Brothers Karamazov -- among other books -- extremely portable, to answering e-mails, taking photographs, making notes, or playing Angry Birds while waiting in the doctor’s office.
I like the feel of the iPhone; it’s sleek and stylish, and its heft is solid and reassuring. I’ve got photographs of my kids on it, a few hundred songs, some useful apps.
My Kindle library spills over with digital editions from some of my favorite authors: Philip Roth, Walter Mosley, James Lee Burke, Shakespeare, Christopher Hitchens, Raj Patel, and Robert Scheer to name a few. My library is stored in the cloud, available whenever I want, and the volumes never gather dust or play host to silverfish.
My Kindle Fire, iPhone and iPad are arrayed on the table in front of me. As much as I admire them, I know these astounding gadgets are the products of Chinese workers, some of them very young, and some of them subject to dubious working conditions and treatment. I know what you’re thinking: why interject darkness into this otherwise upbeat tale of technological advancement. Why worry about some faceless workers on the far side of the world when here, on the fruited and blessed plain of America, we can purchase a Kindle Fire for $199 and an iPad for $500 or so?
Globalization isn’t our fault, right? It’s just the order of things, the logical result of “market” forces and trade agreements. It’s the reason we can buy so many of the things we need and enjoy at bargain prices; it’s why Wal-Mart and Costco thrive, and why Amazon wields enormous power.
Apple builds products in China because the work force is capable, cheap, plentiful and pliable. Annoying labor laws and costly environmental regulations are lax or nonexistent, and taken together these factors make China a manufacturing paradise, the sort of place corporate CEO’s have wet dreams about.
Apple claims to be unaware of any exploitation on the part of its Chinese contractors, but one would need to be deaf, blind and dumb to believe this. Coercion and exploitation hold labor costs down and push profits up.
Exploitation is the grease that makes globalization work and it doesn’t matter if the exploited are Mexican, Guatemalan, Vietnamese, or Chinese. Capital finds cheap labor the same way a Sidewinder missile finds its target. National borders are meaningless -- this is free trade, baby, not fair trade – and all rights and power and privilege are controlled and exercised by companies like Apple, HP and Dell.
The welfare of workers and the environment don’t factor into free trade equations; if they did, Old Navy might not exist.
Every time I buy a piece of clothing the first thing I do is look at the label to see where it was made, and invariably I find myself wondering about the people who made the item. Who are they? What are their working conditions like? How much are they paid? How many hours a day do they work?
A feel good aura surrounds Apple and Amazon, but that aura obscures a rapacious nature that leaves me unsettled. How much power is too much? Amazon plays hardball with book publishers, crushing the little ones, and forcing the big ones to make concessions. Small, local retailers cannot compete with Amazon’s economies of scale, its ubiquity and reach. It’s no less cutthroat than the days of Standard Oil and John D. Rockefeller.
My Kindle Fire, iPad and iPhone are mocking me. “You talk a good game,” they say, “but we dare you to take us out in the backyard and smash us to bits with an 8lb sledgehammer. Go on, put your principles into practice. Don’t be a hypocrite. If you’re so concerned about Chinese workers do something about it. C’mon, brother, talk is cheap. Bring the hammer down.”
I am a hypocrite.
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
Curse of the Gene Pool
The wind is out of the south and the sky is starting to cloud over. My wife calls to tell me that our son got a D on his latest math quiz. Going in the boy assured us he had this one in the bag, that the extra study time he’d invested would pay off; when he came home on quiz day he was confident of at least a B.
The kid is by no means incapable, he just dislikes math, and perhaps he comes by his aversion naturally, via the gene pool. I did okay with basic math but tanked when it came to algebra and geometry, to equations, solving for x; the language of math was like a buzz in my head, annoying and discordant, and no matter how hard I tried or how many hours I spent working out problems, I still felt like a man lost in a strange country.
My wife is better at math than I am, but understanding never came easily for her, either; she had to work extra hard at it.
What’s a parent to do in this anxious age, when the school curriculum moves like lightning, teachers are stressed and constantly under fire, school administrators and State officials are obsessed with standardized test scores, education budgets are gutted year after year because politicians in California don’t have the stones to confront the unintended consequences of Prop 13, and principals spend most of their time fund raising?
The public education system that was for many years the envy of the nation is a shell of its former self, and California now swims at the bottom of a muddy pool with Mississippi and Louisiana and Arkansas.
The Golden State, for reasons of politics and money, which in this era are indistinguishable from one another – decided to put prisons ahead of public education. It doesn’t seem to be working that great.
But back to my son and math: what to do? Private tutoring? Done that. Peer tutoring? Kid refuses. Threats, rewards, pleas? Tried them all.
People who hate exercise won’t go to the gym and kids who equate Algebra with torture shy from the subject. If you don’t like something, you won’t do it, at least not willingly.
When I lived in Japan in the early 1980’s, I remember the annual ritual of “Examination Hell,” a week of intense testing for high school seniors that determined what colleges they could enter. The better the college or university, the better the job prospects, and a position with a prestigious corporation often meant the difference between an affluent life and a mediocre one. Exam Hell Week was high stakes and even higher anxiety and stress, and every year some poor kid slashed his wrists or leaped to his death from an elevated train platform because his test scores didn’t measure up. Not only had the kid failed himself, he had failed his parents, his grandparents and his ancestors, shamed them all.
I always thought Japan’s system insane and inhumane, but in large part, America has adopted the same sort of madness. The curriculum has become dangerously narrow, focused on math and language arts and prepackaged “aligned standards,” and weeks before the annual standardized tests the kids are prepped and prodded and exhorted, while parents are bombarded with pre-recorded telephone messages reminding them to make sure their children are well rested and fed a nutritious breakfast on testing day.
It’s the AA age but by that I mean anxiety and austerity. The kid tanked on his test and I sit here feeling as if I let him down.
The kid is by no means incapable, he just dislikes math, and perhaps he comes by his aversion naturally, via the gene pool. I did okay with basic math but tanked when it came to algebra and geometry, to equations, solving for x; the language of math was like a buzz in my head, annoying and discordant, and no matter how hard I tried or how many hours I spent working out problems, I still felt like a man lost in a strange country.
My wife is better at math than I am, but understanding never came easily for her, either; she had to work extra hard at it.
What’s a parent to do in this anxious age, when the school curriculum moves like lightning, teachers are stressed and constantly under fire, school administrators and State officials are obsessed with standardized test scores, education budgets are gutted year after year because politicians in California don’t have the stones to confront the unintended consequences of Prop 13, and principals spend most of their time fund raising?
The public education system that was for many years the envy of the nation is a shell of its former self, and California now swims at the bottom of a muddy pool with Mississippi and Louisiana and Arkansas.
The Golden State, for reasons of politics and money, which in this era are indistinguishable from one another – decided to put prisons ahead of public education. It doesn’t seem to be working that great.
But back to my son and math: what to do? Private tutoring? Done that. Peer tutoring? Kid refuses. Threats, rewards, pleas? Tried them all.
People who hate exercise won’t go to the gym and kids who equate Algebra with torture shy from the subject. If you don’t like something, you won’t do it, at least not willingly.
When I lived in Japan in the early 1980’s, I remember the annual ritual of “Examination Hell,” a week of intense testing for high school seniors that determined what colleges they could enter. The better the college or university, the better the job prospects, and a position with a prestigious corporation often meant the difference between an affluent life and a mediocre one. Exam Hell Week was high stakes and even higher anxiety and stress, and every year some poor kid slashed his wrists or leaped to his death from an elevated train platform because his test scores didn’t measure up. Not only had the kid failed himself, he had failed his parents, his grandparents and his ancestors, shamed them all.
I always thought Japan’s system insane and inhumane, but in large part, America has adopted the same sort of madness. The curriculum has become dangerously narrow, focused on math and language arts and prepackaged “aligned standards,” and weeks before the annual standardized tests the kids are prepped and prodded and exhorted, while parents are bombarded with pre-recorded telephone messages reminding them to make sure their children are well rested and fed a nutritious breakfast on testing day.
It’s the AA age but by that I mean anxiety and austerity. The kid tanked on his test and I sit here feeling as if I let him down.
Saturday, February 04, 2012
Big Box Blues
My wife and I went to Costco the other day to pick up a few items. Generally, I avoid big box stores in the same way I avoid beehives or jellyfish, but my wife promised we’d be in and out in no time. When it comes to shopping my wife is very adept, organized and disciplined, prepared to buy what she needs and no more, not the type of customer I associate with Costco.
I caught the big box heebie-jeebies right away. The entrance was jammed with people pushing mammoth carts. Before we got past the girl checking membership cards, a woman behind us rammed her cart into my heel. “That’s one reason I avoid this place,” I muttered under my breath. “Don’t start,” my wife said. I watched the woman who almost severed my Achilles veer left and make straight for the electronics, disappearing among the fifty and sixty inch HDTV’s. I felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the store, the industrial pallet racks stretching toward the ceiling, the sea of merchandise: stacks of books, piles of sweaters, jeans, shirts, tires, throw rugs, bath towels, BBQ grills, bicycles, golf clubs, vacuum cleaners, cases of wine, blocks of cheese. It’s enough to make my head spin. Everyone around us seemed to know one another and a quick vision of a Renaissance market passed through my mind. But this was a public square under a privately owned roof, a meticulously crafted business model, a machine of commerce.
570 stores, worldwide. South Korea, Mexico, Canada, Britain, and down under in Australia.
We’ve come to take it for granted, but the “warehouse” store is an innovative idea in the retail racket, and Costco has it wired. Concrete floor, no frills, no manufacturer’s coupons or blue light specials, big discounts on certain items, and the sense of being on a grand treasure hunt for something you didn’t know you had to have until you see it. Even in the midst of a hopeless recession the aisles are jammed with shoppers. Who has money to spend? I wondered.
A group of students from UCSB loaded a cart with breakfast cereal, toilet paper, bread, frozen burritos, Diet Coke and Dr. Pepper, orange juice, Cool Whip, dill pickles and bananas. By contrast, our cart is still empty. This makes me feel conspicuous, like an imposter. A woman in a red apron hands out Greek yogurt in tiny white cups. Two kids in soccer garb, parents nowhere to be seen, battle over a cup. “She gave it to me!” “No she didn’t!” “You can’t steal my yogurt!” “It’s not yours!” I told my wife that if we wanted to hear children squabble we could stay home. She shook her head at me and dropped a two and a half pound bag of coffee in our cart. Seattle Mountain, Costa Rican, whole bean. Alone in the big cart the coffee looked lonely.
“I feel like we should buy something large and substantial,” I said, “like 55 gallons of white vinegar. Something you have to wheel out with a pallet jack.”
She said, “Look for feminine hygiene products. I need maxipads.”
“How about five gallons of BBQ sauce?” I asked.
“Stop yourself.”
“Ketchup? We can always use ketchup.”
“Follow me, look for maxipads.”
By the time we finished our cart contained a whopping three items – the coffee, a jumbo pack of maxipads, and an oversized bottle of generic allergy medicine. The check out lines were backed up into the aisles and moving at a sloth’s pace. On the other side of the check-out area I watched people strain to roll carts overflowing with merchandise; once they got home with all that booty they would spend at least an hour putting it away. A squat woman in an eggplant sweat suit and black UGG’s pushed one cart and pulled another; she reminded me of a prospector during the gold rush, urging her pack mules up the trail.
“Let’s get a hotdog when we get out of here,” my wife said. “I’m hungry.”
“At this pace that will be tomorrow morning.”
“It’s not that bad. You up for a hotdog?”
“Can we get two or do they sell them by the dozen?”
I caught the big box heebie-jeebies right away. The entrance was jammed with people pushing mammoth carts. Before we got past the girl checking membership cards, a woman behind us rammed her cart into my heel. “That’s one reason I avoid this place,” I muttered under my breath. “Don’t start,” my wife said. I watched the woman who almost severed my Achilles veer left and make straight for the electronics, disappearing among the fifty and sixty inch HDTV’s. I felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the store, the industrial pallet racks stretching toward the ceiling, the sea of merchandise: stacks of books, piles of sweaters, jeans, shirts, tires, throw rugs, bath towels, BBQ grills, bicycles, golf clubs, vacuum cleaners, cases of wine, blocks of cheese. It’s enough to make my head spin. Everyone around us seemed to know one another and a quick vision of a Renaissance market passed through my mind. But this was a public square under a privately owned roof, a meticulously crafted business model, a machine of commerce.
570 stores, worldwide. South Korea, Mexico, Canada, Britain, and down under in Australia.
We’ve come to take it for granted, but the “warehouse” store is an innovative idea in the retail racket, and Costco has it wired. Concrete floor, no frills, no manufacturer’s coupons or blue light specials, big discounts on certain items, and the sense of being on a grand treasure hunt for something you didn’t know you had to have until you see it. Even in the midst of a hopeless recession the aisles are jammed with shoppers. Who has money to spend? I wondered.
A group of students from UCSB loaded a cart with breakfast cereal, toilet paper, bread, frozen burritos, Diet Coke and Dr. Pepper, orange juice, Cool Whip, dill pickles and bananas. By contrast, our cart is still empty. This makes me feel conspicuous, like an imposter. A woman in a red apron hands out Greek yogurt in tiny white cups. Two kids in soccer garb, parents nowhere to be seen, battle over a cup. “She gave it to me!” “No she didn’t!” “You can’t steal my yogurt!” “It’s not yours!” I told my wife that if we wanted to hear children squabble we could stay home. She shook her head at me and dropped a two and a half pound bag of coffee in our cart. Seattle Mountain, Costa Rican, whole bean. Alone in the big cart the coffee looked lonely.
“I feel like we should buy something large and substantial,” I said, “like 55 gallons of white vinegar. Something you have to wheel out with a pallet jack.”
She said, “Look for feminine hygiene products. I need maxipads.”
“How about five gallons of BBQ sauce?” I asked.
“Stop yourself.”
“Ketchup? We can always use ketchup.”
“Follow me, look for maxipads.”
By the time we finished our cart contained a whopping three items – the coffee, a jumbo pack of maxipads, and an oversized bottle of generic allergy medicine. The check out lines were backed up into the aisles and moving at a sloth’s pace. On the other side of the check-out area I watched people strain to roll carts overflowing with merchandise; once they got home with all that booty they would spend at least an hour putting it away. A squat woman in an eggplant sweat suit and black UGG’s pushed one cart and pulled another; she reminded me of a prospector during the gold rush, urging her pack mules up the trail.
“Let’s get a hotdog when we get out of here,” my wife said. “I’m hungry.”
“At this pace that will be tomorrow morning.”
“It’s not that bad. You up for a hotdog?”
“Can we get two or do they sell them by the dozen?”
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