Think Globally, Vote Uninformedly, thats my motto. Or maybe its Buy Locally, Act Inappropriately. You see, I could purchase everything local, everything from my tortillas to my beer to the Village Bicycle-which is owned and ridden by no one but me and thus should not be considered a community bicycle nor a telling metaphor for my anemic sex life .
Its odd how us progressives, the supervillain of small business owners what with our climate bills and social security, are also the ones who tend to advocate for buying locally,, in other words, support local business. This somehow smacks of elitism. Perhaps, as some would argue, because our gentrification means that we support the organic clothing and designer chocolate shops instead of whatever true American business were there before, presumably boutique shops were one can buy border fences (make your yard as high security as the Mexican border!) and made-in-American tea sets. But isn’t this changing business caveat to the “buying local elitism” not simply a true expression of capitalism? Anyway, I’m confused.
In my efforts to support a local based economy, I have been both buying my fruit from neighborhood greenmarkets, and hunting the neighborhood rats. Not to eat, as I am a vegetarian, rather I sheer them for hair, to be spun into the much coveted rat wool.
Because of my habit of riding in the rain (its been almost two months since I’ve taken the train to work, so pffbt), two things have occurred: my chain has dried, and I’ve gotten a couple of double rainbows–a service I’ve heard is also provided by the village bicycles for an extra fee
There are two local bike shops in my neighborhood. One seems to be quite fashionable, and one seems to be struggling: more out of the way, rundown, relatively bare. Being the disgusting elitist who keeps his socks on when looking at rainbows, I naturally went to the shoddier of the two shops to pick up some chain lube.
If old cat ladies were using bicycles to pick up their kitty litter at the stores, this guy would be a millionaire. The whole shop has a faint smell of cat piss, which is weird for a bike shop, which usually has the far stronger odor of grease and mildewy spandex shorts. The proprietor seemed like he’d spent a bit too much time as a stoned bicycle messenger back in the 70s, and had enough dandruff to start his own snow globe company.
He looked like the middle-aged son of Gomez Addams and the Bride of Frankenstein (horror movie’s Helen of Troy, leaving Frankenstien for Gomez), if Gomez Jr. inherited his looks and her hair.
The first time I went in there, I stupidly forgot my cash, and so I promised to return in a few days with some “bones”, as no one says. When I came back in, the owner rose creakily from his coffin, and said “you’re a man of your word”.
See, that’s what you get at a local business, people who recognize you and remember you, for us elites it gives us the chance to interact with “real live” Americans instead of the fake control the world immigrant America or whatever. We of course use this knowledge mainly to better oppress the real Americans (read: not the Native Americans, the other real Americans), but I did appreciate this sort of personal interaction. I was hoping that he would complement me on my new rat wool bike shorts, but I’m just happy he remembered me.