That's one of the big reasons the major industrial powers hate my guts, because I'm tenacious, like a junkyard dog with a one track mind guarding his junk. Look at what's happened just since this past April. I went from unknown provocateur to mild irritant to burr under their saddle to the middle of their blacklist to public enemy number one in their eyes. Because I didn't forget. I saw the problem and I kept going back, back, back, returning over and over, without fail, and without apology.
That last point really is true. You can look back to my post, "The Industrial Powers Shall Receive No Apology," and see I stood my ground. It wasn't easy either. Because in those days there was no one on my side, then Paul Krugman, out of the blue, stepped in as one lonely voice, and from that point everything improved. Then especially when the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) got underway, there was true power in numbers, and the majors, while not letting me off the hook entirely, had a lot more to deal with than one guy.
And yet ... I remain that same burr under their saddle ... and you never know when they're going to descend on me. That's just reality, the reality I live with everyday.
You know, I was watching the new show on TV, "Hardcore Pawn," and this weather-worn, rough cut, begrizzled old pawnbroker, who must've seen more violence than most human beings alive, in war torn Detroit, was totally freaked out that some big-mouthed sassy woman, clearly nothing but talk, threatened him because he wouldn't give her back her pawned item without a ticket. Somehow, inexplicably, he must've been a pawnbroker in Detroit for 40 years without ever receiving a threat! And this one seemed mild. But he totally freaked out and decided everyone in the shop needed a brand new gun and the full training that goes with it. I say all that to say all this: If that guy, who seemed like he might've* been playacting for the cameras, has security issues, what about me? This is reality. The majors have shot fireballs over my house, meaning, if my house had had a thatched roof, I wouldn't be here now. Yet here I sit, all these enemies, obviously it's dire.
But I don't let it get me down. Even in the face of their boldfaced attacks against me. Like that day at the park by the river, back in July. Sometimes a walk in the park is no walk in the park, if you catch my meaning. Especially this park, with all the things going on there. I'd hate to walk too far, because I might go all the way, if you catch my meaning. One, there's a lot of hard workers there, if you catch my meaning. They work so hard they're working their fingers to the bone, if you catch my meaning. Two, there was actually a plot hatched there to get me, with a guy named Thompson relaying the word to his confederates, the word coming to him from the powers on high.
Whether the major industrial pervs have indeed given up the park or not is not a question I can answer with 100% certainty. I don't have any way to monitor it, for one. And two, if I went there regularly, they'd probably return to get me, assuming for the sake of argument that they've actually given it up.
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*It just so happened that the sudden need to get a gun coincided with the first or second show in the series.
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