Piano rock and Wal-Mart bananas

Finally, my place is beginning to look like I'd want to hang out with the person who lives there. Outside the running gag that is the Santa Cruz County housing scene, I can suddenly afford multiple rooms and furniture to fill them. I even bought a throw rug the other day. All of this is a unique experience for me. If you didn't know already, newspaper folks ain't in it for the money. Fame, maybe. Social approval, more than likely. But never cash. I'd be richer if I'd started hanging drywall in junior high. Even so, my second-hand futon and I are going to change the world.
I actually had to drive back to Santa Cruz last weekend to tie off some loose ends, several of which steadfastly refuse to be tied. I relearned a pair of major life lessons within the span of 24 hours: Rental agreements are legally binding, and people don't have to like everyone they kiss. Some of them they may downright loathe.
I was also exposed to a genre of music I have so far done my best to deny the existence of --- piano rock. I don't mean Elton John or Yes, both of whom could have staked claims on that name decades ago but wisely avoided it. I mean the new crop of moody popsters who equate tickling the proverbial ivories with emotional complexity and unrequited love. Don't get me wrong; my musical skills are pretty much limited to the easy part of "Chopsticks" and the backing vocals on a few songs that went out of style in the late '90s ("If you want to destroy my sweater *whoa whoa whoa* Pull this thread as I walk away"). I'm in total awe of anybody that can do anything at all on key. But just because an unimaginative pop single has a neat piano riff in the bridge doesn't mean it's not an unimaginative pop song, you know? Stop buying the album already. Also: Back in the day, rock 'n' roll didn't generally make you want to hang yourself. If you go back to the term's literal meaning, it was supposed to make you want to do something entirely different that, ahem, required help. Enough with the sad bastard music, unless it's a band I like.
Anyway, I visited my local Wal-Mart out of desperation the other night and found myself leaving with nearly $200 worth of stuff. I can almost justify the computer desk and the microwave, but I'm having trouble with the groceries. If any soulless retailer is up to its neck in the illegal coffee and produce trades, you just know it's Wal-Mart. There's no doubt in my mind that the spinach now in my refrigerator was picked in the diminishing tropical spinach groves of Nicaragua by malnourished Cambodian sweatshop workers whose ancestors considered that land sacred. I can barely choke it down (although a nice mustard vinagarette helps) and I can practically hear the Chiquita Banana overlords cackling as I peel their nefarious product and slice ity over my slave-labor cereal. But where else was I supposed to get cheap produce at 11 p.m. on a Sunday? On the other hand, if you can justify giving your money to Wal-Mart, you can pretty much justify anything short of violent crime.
Overall, this week was an experience in being an Average American. I found my emotional needs only marginally fulfilled, my diet unremarkable and my entertainment only somewhat diverting. Was I miserable? Far from it. Only vaguely displeased. But that can still wear a guy down in a hurry.
However, in true American fashion, I've made a new start in a new place and the possibilities yawn before me. There are many worse things to be than a promising young up-and-comer with romantic prospects, however unlikely, and that's something I think about every day. Things can only improve from here, and here's actually pretty nice. If only folks would ease up on the Coldplay...