You have been made to want a car. A new car. A polished thing that swerves out at you, smiling its chromium smile near some amazingly vacant sidewalk. Glitz camouflaging the unseen struggle. As in the quaint old days when invading European vandals [come to rape America] held out trinkets that caught the light, today painted panels big as dirigibles stare you down on all sides, and you, like the naked guys with a few feathers, you buy into this shit. They traded their land, their birthright, their everything for a string of shiny beads – and you? What do you sign away your true freedom of movement for? The pressure of loan payments ? Turkey! They’ve roped you in with oversized toys! Today’s billboard is the equestrian statue of yesterday – the sly, potent reminder of who is actually running the show. [Corporate fascists?] There was a time people had the collective courage to topple the unscrupulous, but you, you just stand there and drool. And your wife? Well she hardly has an authentic personal life, so enfatuated she is with the lives of perfect strangers in magazine photos. Mr. and Mrs. Jurkem.
[As I am proud of my native American blood, please understand this is storytime, not an altogether accurate accounting of history. The case might be made that the native people’s thought the newcomers mad as hatters to believe Mother Earth could be bought and sold in such a way.]