Economic Indicators

Lately, i've been reading a non-fiction book about the what the world is going to be like in the year 2020. It's not a futuristic adventure, nor is a rant about the apocalypse. It's a very interesting books that brings up many interesting points.

Its clear from all the information gathered that it's a very well researched book. All the predicitions the author makes seem just and practical, mainly because he's careful to cite releveant figures, explain trends, and form realistic conclusions.

The book is called The World in 2020: Power, Culture and Prosperity. It's written by Hamish McRae, a journalist and editor of the London Independent.

I agree with much of what McRae has to say, except for one thing: his use of economic indicators.

Top assess a country's wealth and standard of living, McRae takes the number of refridgerators a nationa has, then divides that number by its population. He says that refridgerators are good indicators because only the very wealthy can afford an expensive machine that keeps their food chilled. I somewhat agree to that, but I think it's not the most accurate indicator.

Why? Because surely they have refridgerators in Zambia.

Personally, I think that lawn gnomes are the best indicators of a nations wealth. I think the number of lawn nomes a country has cumulatively, should be divided by its population.

I say this because only the very wealthy can afford to spend their income on small ceramic statues of Norse fairytale creatures. For the most part, these figurines, or statues, or whatever you want to call them, are hidden away in the garden, or placed in the middle of the lawn in order to make passer-bys think that there are mythical dwarves dwelling at that particular household.

Regardless of where they are, they're going to get stolen.

Only the very wealthy are dumb enough to spend their money on something they know will get stolen, and only the very wealthy are dumb enough to support nordic cultures in any way.

Stupid wealthies.

My humps

My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my
hump, my hump.
My lovely lady lumps (x3)
What you gon do with all that junk?
All that junk inside that trunk?

What a testament to our culture. If you never understood the marketing machine, we can use this song as an example. First off, let me begin by making the point that we can all universally agree this is not the best song in the world right now. I'm sure there are very different opinions on the matter, but there are quite possibly more than 3 million songs in the world, right now, that are better than this. It actually sounds like it's something made in some pre-pubescent teens basement. Somehow, someway, this song is a #1.

This confirms my theory that "hitlists" are actually nothing more than ad spaces. It's a silent auction bidding war between record companies to get their song to the #1 slot. The Black Eyed Peas bought their position. They're corporate whores who've deviated from the "realness" of music. They should be ashamed of themselves.

A little over a year ago, I made love to a woman. As I was getting to know her, I asked her what type of music she listens to, you know, as an icebreaker. She told me she listened to "Top 40". I don't know what that means. It's like saying you only pay attention to television to see the commercials. "Top 40" music is a commercial. It has nothing to do with music. Nothing. I puked all over the bitch and as she was putting her clothes back on, I called her fake.

Not really though.

But she deserves it...and so does Fergie.

An open letter to Eric Lindros.

Dear Eric,

You are such a beautiful man.

You have the grace of a jungle cat.

Still, you play hockey like a sissy girl.

Love always,

- Rowland

ps: Retire already.

The most peculiar thing happend to me on my way to work this morning.

As I sat on a bench waiting for a bus, I noticed that my world was collapsing on itself. Startled, I began to tell the middle-aged woman beside me that I no longer live within the confines of humanity.

Her reply was confusing, yet brilliant. She looked me right in the eyes and said, "I am the Angel of Death. the time of reckoning is upon us.

Then, around the corner, my bus came. I parted ways with my new friend and got on the bus.

"That'll be one dollar and eighty-five cents," the bus driver exclaimed with a tone of courtesy and a tip of the hat.

"I haven't got any money!" I replied.

"Nothing?"

"Oh wait!" I said as I reached into my pocket. "I do have this." I proceeded to pull out a velvet rope. I unraveld it in front of the driver. "Now," I explained, "I can wrap this around your neck and kill you right here, right now, in front of everyone on the bus, or I'll bring twice as much money tomorrow and pay you back for today."

"Oh Rowland! You've always been such a kidder. Pay me next time you can."

Everyone on the bus was in an uproar of laughter. I walked arrogantly down the aisle of the crowded bus until I found a nice seat at the back. I sat down on a piece of old gum and some unidentifiable stain.

The bus started moving again.

I gazed out the window to the passing cars on the frozen winter street. After twenty minutes of people watching, I suddenly realized, that I hadn't blinked since I sat down. I also realized that I wasn't looking out the window at all: I was staring at the old man sitting across from me. He looked very afraid.

I spoke out. "I fuck pigs."

The old man reacted by pulling the yellow cord indicating that he wanted to get off the bus at the next stop. I started laughing hysterically.

No one else was laughing with me.