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June 17, 2011

Journals from my old home in Manchester, VT and my new home in Brooklyn

Day 2


Over the Mountain:  At some point around the turn of the century, a friendly rivalry between neighbors, escalated into a full-scale turf war between mountain and valley folks. Fortunately, my formative years were filled with harmonious exchanges with mountain people, going so far as to actually forging lasting friendships that exist to this day.  Others weren't so lucky.  New blood in the mountains (think Hamas) created a drastic spike in douchebaggery levels, as dickhead snowboarders and skiiers alike, championed the cause of the dispossessed being oppressed by the rich, snobbish "city" people (think Mossad) of Manchester.  Yes, middle to upper middle class white people were angry at other middle to upper middle class white people for being more upper middle class.  Like Apartheid minus the black people.

   The unified struggle of "Don't Jersey Vermont" became the more focused mountain campaign "Don't Manchester the Mountains".  Totally reasonable argument, seeing that tourists come to the rich town of Manchester to shop at the outlets.  They don't come to ski at mountain resorts.  If somebody from New Jersey wants to ski, they have plenty of mountains in the Palisades and Meadowlands to choose from.  If they wanna shop, they're fucked.  They have to come here.  Sadly, I only see this turmoil regressing into full scale war.  In twenty years, the land between Bondville and Manchester will look like the Gaza Strip.  Floodbrook kids will hate MEMS kids and MEMS kids will hate Floodbrook kids.  They won't know why, they just will.  When will it end?


My Silly Drug Dealing Neighbors:  My upstairs neighbors are a riot.  Don't tell them they can't listen to the same Lil' Wayne album two years straight and play basketball in their apartment at 1 A.M every night.  I have to give these fine gentlemen a bit of a break though.  They're the only Puerto Rican guys in a complex filled with white hipsters.  They have the right to blast Hot 97 whenever they damn well please.  Even if it's done every Monday morning at 2 A.M. like fucking clockwork.

   How do you know they sell drugs?  You're being racist Time Machine.  I know because they asked me, "Do you need any coke, weed, or ecstacy?"  Where was this guy two years ago when I needed him?  They're not really bad guys, they just operate on drug dealer time.  Drug Dealer Time or DDT is 8 hours behind your normal, functioning member of society time or EST.  The drug dealer's day begins at the crack of 5 pm.  Here he goes straight to dinner then straight to cocaine.  At around 4 A.M. he's smack dab in the middle of his day.  He might catch a bit of Good Morning America before lights out at 11 A.M.  You try living your life in a perpetual cycle of cocaine, crunk juice, and Lil' Wayne and tell me if you give a flying fuck what your downstairs neighbors think.