William F. Buckley, Jr., Mr. Private Property, planned to give a little talk, a political speech, in a small town in Illinois. His advance men discovered that the center of town had disappeared, and that all the commercial action was out at the mall. When Buckley arrived at the mall, he set up his microphone near a little fountain and began to hand out leaflets and autograph copies of his latest book. Just as a small crowd of shoppers gathered, the owners of the mall ran out and said: Excuse us. This is private property, we're afraid you'll have to leave ...
You know, when I got back from a trip this summer, I noticed that all of the old factories here on the outskirts of town had suddenly been transformed into luxurious condos and that thousands of people had moved into them almost overnight. Most of the new residents appeared to be professional barbecuers. Every night, they were out on their fire escapes barbecueing something. And the smoke rising from their little fires made the whole neighborhood look like a giant battlefield. And I would look out my window and say: Hm. You know, last night I came up out of the subway and I said to myself: Hm. Do you want to go home? And I thought: You _are_ home.
Do you want to go home?
Do you want to go home now?