Contemplating anarcho-primitivism in a suburban parking lot

Or: If there is a Hell in John Zerzan’s universe, I deserve to go there

You ever get that feeling that you walked into the wrong classroom on the first day of school? That seems to be the case here. Awkward.

But the show must go on, I suppose. Reading anything has been a challenge with two rug-rats in the home, a wife getting increasingly tired of my introverted scatter-brained ways (I have been called a “space cadet”, and I didn’t argue with that characterization), and a day job that sinks me deeper into the dark entrails of the inner workings of capital (but at least I can keep the door of my office closed and blast French baroque music from my computer much to the the dismay of my coworkers). The mortgage, the lawn, the neighbors with anti-Obama and Tea Party bumper stickers on their cars, the heat, the humidity, the crawfish, the swamp, the gators… all a far cry from my intellectual blossoming in Berkeley. I was just another Mexican kid from the fields getting radicalized and spending too much time at political meetings, thinking that changing the world was as simple as 3, 2, 1… But that all went to Hell, didn’t it? And now I have a two year old sleeping in the back seat, and I’m reading some book about how humanity went wrong when it first invented language. This is a new low. I just hope I remember to buy the right twelve pack of bar soap at the Sam’s Club.

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