A deeper shade of Jay

A woman and her male friend are sitting on a bench outside the Sunshine Market, all three of us minding their own business.
"She thinks she's so progressive because she hates Bush and she's from the Midwest where that's apparently a big deal."
"Yeah, and she goes to McDonald's! It's like hello, are you really that enlightened if you support THEM???"
"Right? I could show her some really progressive literature that would blow her mind. I just finished this... nerble nerble nerble nerble nerble...."

They get up and walk off, and I can't follow them to hear the rest because I'm still eating slippery papaya chunks, thinking about the warmest smiles I've received today, all from Mexicans.
I haven't had an idea in a while, so I try to come up with a reliable test for the order in which we would blow up cities and towns in the future if we had to destroy some, but I sort of need Jay for this. Last night when Deb was lamenting the many dental-related routines she was going to need to go through in order to go to bed, Jay assured us of a future invention that would free us from all the mouthcare hassles, a plaque-eating bacteria of some sort that excretes a minty-flavored byproduct as it removes harmful tooth-decaying gunk. My teeth ache for this innovation, and from the Beard Papa cream-puff earlier, a lesser idea of Jay's, but still, an idea in a land of men yelling at their lovers for something the dog did wrong.

I'm not sure when the delusion of entitlement and titling of overly-available and nearly daily treats will finally end, when the need-chart is re-calibrated for an America that will still be able to see her toes in a decade, but in the mean-time I wander to the bakery where I'm nibbling my way across the case in case St. Helena and its heavenly bakery are chosen to be obliterated before I come back here. Just as strange as the promoting to "specialness" of daily excesses, is the odd presentation of literal treats as daily entitlements through Salumerias, cheese mongers, fuckin' caviar bars. I, for one, feel myself believing the imagery of hanging meats as something I'm to come and get my regular slice of, as something I'm to want and consistently pursue in my life, that someone (the me I want to be) is already doing this affordably, sustainably, as an after thought.
Jay is less afraid than me. "It's lifestyle, man," he imitates the local, lazy permissiveness. It's just enough to make me snarf my pinot grigio to stifle a laugh.