A Day in New York: The Ordinary Face of the Great Reset

This happens to be my block. I don't blame the migrants. I blame the oligarchs who are successfully killing standards and stealing from all.

A line of cars all jammed up, waiting for a garbage truck to move out of the way. The offending truck, just sitting there in middle of the street, with a garbage can placed behind it comfortably, is in no hurry at all. It is functioning at the pace of a Soviet bureaucrat. Let ‘em wait.  

Zoom out—and you’ll find a line of skinny, tired-looking, freezing refugees. Two very long fenced off lines, in fact, going for half a block each way. Some wearing masks, some wrapped in foil of some sort, big scraps of foils traveling by wind along the sidewalk, giving it an abandoned look. It’s cold outside, they look poor and hopeful, they make do.

Unlike the previous batch that came with bad music and fine motorcycles, this batch looks impoverished and tired, and the music they play on their phones is actually alive. On a better and warmer day, I would dance to it.  (The paradox of modern times is that even the poorest people have smartphones for the peeping convenience of the panopticon’s manageria…