I remember it was a beautiful morning in Charleston, and I had walked over to the Farmer’s Market at Marion Square. A nice, hippyish gal was selling her locally raised fruit and truck vegetables. She had one of those “Buy Local” signs. I was with an attractive blond. We were off to an early start that was sure to be a most pleasant day. That is, until I ruined the mood. I couldn’t help myself! It was that sign, and the self-righteousness of her moral preening. Somehow, I was an evil capitalist if I didn’t buy her locally grown green peppers over ones grown in California. So instead of paying attention to the blond and doing something chivalrous to enhance my prospects, like buying her flowers, I decided to engage the hippy farmer chick in an economics discussion.
Read Full Article »
