Monday, October 29, 2012

Consequentialist ethics and the supply chain: sex and iPhone cartels

So years ago I had a clandestine affair with a bipolar suicidal genius named Anissa. It was really stupid and I deserved death and divorce, but got neither. Just before we moved to Manila, we had Anissa over and reconciled. The reconciliation involved sex. Anissa had a boyfriend. We figured it was her business and not ours. Oh. And now Anissa's in a hospital bed in New York, hopefully not dying of a heroin overdose. I'm telling you, this girl is fun scary.

Here's something to think about: are you a murderer for buying a Playstation 3, considering that there are wars being fought and people dying to procure the rare earth minerals needed to make the console? Prosumers say yes. I have no freaking idea what the answer is. I'd like to see people only buy meat that doesn't come from tortured animals, and only buy chemicals that don't come from wrecking the water table, and only buy drugs that don't fund the assassination of judges in Mexico, but when you follow this logic to its end, as Thoreau did, you end up having to build your own cabin and sew your own clothes. This is probably the only ethical solution. I've never met anyone who does it.

So will I now torture an animal for meat? Kill an African kid for a Playstation? Heavens no. I want to come by stolen goods righteously, and throw rocks at the butcher as I buy my meat, like the Tibetans do.

Maybe she was about to break up with her boyfriend (fact). Maybe he's a controlling jerk (FACT). Maybe people should make their own moral decisions and I shouldn't worry about the supply chain.

He found out.

He abandoned her side as she lay in her hospital bed.


Anyways, me and Matt have this plan about iPhones. Jackasses on the street steal them and then resell them to white people for a third of the going second-hand US price.

I didn't steal them.

We could make a killing on eBay. . .

It begins

These are the chronicles of a life at its apex, a short while after the poverty and spiritual convulsions that bring one into adulthood, and not too far in to the period where age starts setting in and dreams get crushed and everyone starts dying off.

We moved to Manila. Life blew up and we were outed as sexual freaks and North Texas came with pitchforks and we moved to Manila. Me and Meg and our boys got here first. Matt (My soul's friend, and Meg's boyfriend), got here a month after us, about two weeks ago. Me and Meg live in a condo on Mabini street (whores and gays territory), in apartment 2805-B.

Since we lost Cassy, I've been sleeping around. It's fun but not perfect. I did Amie. Amie has skin like an infant's and an article in this month's issue of Cosmopolitan. She interviewed Meg about polyamory for her next article, but I think she's going to leave out the participant nature of her research. I'm also chasing her friend A.K., an exotic surrealist artist who plainly says she likes me but doesn't say it like I need it, all fiery and fake.

Both of these girls are Sarah Lunas recast in Asian form: photogenic and intimidating cerebral dykes. This is mostly what OKCupid serves me up. Almost-famous women who will only sometimes consider a man. We'll see where this goes.

Marry me, A.K.

I've got my kids in a crazy private school where they have futuristic computers and classes in Chinese. This has bankrupted me. Me and Matt have a plan about that, though.

Oh. And I got a haircut.