I hate work. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no bum. I hustle. I just never had a normal job.

Well, I worked for ARCO once. I lasted a week. I couldn’t stop laughing during one of their employee orientation films.

I don’t know how people do it – work at jobs they hate. The same job. The same office. For years. My Father did it, as did his Father before him. My Grandfather worked himself to death in the oil fields so that my Father could work overtime as an engineer so that I could go to Art School.

I hope I don’t sound too sarcastic. I feel very lucky in not having to do something stupid for a living. I am lucky – we are lucky; born in the right place at the right time. We don’t have to grub around for roots and berries or chase barefoot after chickens or toil in sweaty factories.

We were born members of the richest generation the world has ever known, Children of the Later American Empire. Even the meanest of us can afford ourselves luxury unheard in other parts of the world. And then there's us. The artists. The dreamers. The Republic provides us the luxury of the hyphenated lifestyle; no mere workers, we are salesman-artist, plumber-songwriter, waitress-actress, Something Hyphen Something Else. - Next Page