There goes all my retirement planning, shot to hell.
"Still humping the American Dream, that vision of the Big Winner somehow emerging from the last minute pre—dawn chaos of a stale Vegas casino. Big strike in Silver City. Beat the dealer and go home rich. Why not? I stopped at the Money Wheel and dropped a dollar on Thomas Jefferson—a $2 bill, the straight Freak ticket, thinking as always that some idle instinct bet might carry the whole thing off. But no. Just another two bucks down the tube. You bastards! No. Calm down. Learn to enjoy losing. The important thing is to cover this story on its own terms..."*
Start a worm farm, only visit the city in autumn**, the good life.
Then this from Materials Recycling Week:
“The emissions that come from these worms can actually be 290 times more potent than carbon dioxide and 20 times more potent than methane. In all environmental systems you get good points and bad points.”
*Hunter S Thompson was a better writer than me.
**John Keats; ditto:
|SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,|
|Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;|
|Conspiring with him how to load and bless|
|With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;|
|To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,||5|
|And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;|
|To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells|
|With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,|
|And still more, later flowers for the bees,|
|Until they think warm days will never cease,||10|
|For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.|