t h e s a l o n
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Nowhere is it more apparent that American children are horrible than when they are traveling. When parents take their bratty offspring with them to the Hiltons and Carnival Cruise Ships of the world, they send a message loud and clear: we Americans are so self-involved, the rest of you are little more than casting extras in our own personal, digitally filmed biographies.
Like Citizen Kane's Xanadu, it seemed most post-depression era adults were no longer fixated on keeping up with the Joneses but escaping them altogether, protected by head-high redwood fences adorned with vines and guarded by trees so tall no neighbor could peek over and shoot the breeze, unlike even the faceless neighbor in Tim Allen's "Tool Time" sitcom.
Which brings us to what I really think I know to tell you. The living hurts. Nothing can take that away. But a good woman—for a sad-eyed, eagle-eyed—man such as I—a woman who makes no apology for being alive—sure makes the living easier.