IT'S BEEN A WEEK OF EPIPHANIES FOR ME. The kind that have been obvious forever but you refuse to act on them until your own stupidity has you pinned to the floor, knee on throat. You know. My most recent: capitalism is the new slavery and I'm unshackling myself, starting with cutting down the money I spend on restaurants and bars. If I save more, I can work less and rap more and get rich faster then I'm buying you all tiger steaks. I say we do 80% of all this eating out at restaurants because we have nothing better to do with our time, our money, or each other. Eff that. I got dreams that extend beyond a $30 plate of pasta. I'll be in the lot with the metal flask. See you inside in a few.

To that end, we took our asses to Habib's Market instead of the breakfast joint yesterday. We laughed with our butcher. We squeezed avocadoes. We exchanged pleasantries with Ali the cashier. I won't bore you with the details of what we made, but there was feta cheese and mixed olives and pickled garlic and we ate on the balcony to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack then had siesta and it all felt very Euro. And that's what the Palms Weekend is: life as vacation. Foreigners everywhere, rattan balconies, ramshackle housing, sparse use of deodorant. Pinch me.

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