We built capacity because we knew what was coming, though not so white as we imagined. Now the future is here, it’s 12 lanes, and it’s not moving at all.
We were the outer limit of the metropolitan commute. Now you stop here for gas on the way to Moorpark.
As consolation, the food is a whole lot better.
People are prettier, when pretty is a professional aspiration. The rest of us are fat as f***.
Houses are unobtainably expensive.
Electronic gadgetry is cheap, ubiquitous, and wonder making in its power.
The air is cleaner.
Good manners have gone to hell.
Love of a beautiful sentence is going the way of VHS and polyester slacks.
A year of pop music is a pale facsimile of a month’s worth of output in the 1970’s.
Long form television is our Golden Age.
We are lonely in our crowds, in a way the man in the stepside pickup probably wasn’t.
We nest inside our Netflix queue and pronounce ourselves content.
We are growing childlike in our willingness to repeat propaganda.