The American dream is of Chinese trinkets, 

mass consumption, two cars in every garage and a bird in every oven, Sunday dinner and Christmas presents. As a child I could never sleep on Christmas Eve, not because I was waiting for Santa Claus (nobody believed that shit), but because I couldn’t stand the suspense of waiting to see what would be in my possession by next morning. Possession is 9/10 of the law, remember. Those are the halcyon days of pure memory, pristine and distinct, etched and beveled by space and time to a fine sheen and polish that belies the exigencies of the given situation. By my teens Christmas might be more like hopping in the car to go run off to the lake to watch the early morning stream rise off the water as the steam rises off my brain from some senseless argument. Family is elusive, as is friendship, just because of all the choices involved, I guess. Freedom is dangerous; role-playing is safe; love is always just out of grasp. I think maybe relationships kill the love that otherwise grows wild in vacant lots. The minute you incorporate, the business goes south.

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