Condolences, vanishing pita

My life as a failed cilantro baron:

“Oh you think it’s over, think it’s over to me, someone who sells pot in the subway…” – Foxygen

Sometimes I think it will never get this good again. All my enemies are dead, or trapped in the reeking husk of the Republican National Convention facility in Cleveland, slowly going insane over the new Hitler. The Quathiaski grocery now stocks Prick IPA. The tourists are leaving Quadra Island, albeit without the mountains of trash they brought over from the dump we locals describe as “Campbell River”.  I am filled with the light that can only be gathered by a full day of watching 911 conspiracy videos. And Boomer, the dog I fell in love with, has vanished from the baby apocalypse that is the south Slocan.

And the academy, by which I mean UBC, has so devolved into corporate shill-dom that not even Santa Ono (also, strangely, a Cleveland reference) can save it. I wonder what d.a. levy would make of this late corporate-capitalist age of sickening greed, complicit governmental hand-jobbing, and a judiciary both bloated and decidely anti-human. No-one, it seems, can go to jail in Canada unless wretchedly poor or hyper-violent. Sex crimes? No problem. Environmental degradation? Carry on, Mt. Polley. Graft, corruption, and erstwhile pillaging of the public weal? You go, girl—by which we, in BC, mean Christy Clark.

Meanwhile,  while I was away on workation, my cilantro plants were destroyed by Quadra’s starving giant squirrels (also called “deer” by recently-transplanted Vancouverites). I will NEVER make it in agriculture (again).

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