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Read other letters about this article
First of all, he writes for Salon. He can't even afford an apartment. Salon doesn't pay money for articles. Nobody pays for writing any more.
The only way he could afford a house, wife and two kids is if he's dealing heroin on the side. Or for that matter, the only way he could afford one of those impossible-to-fix damn yuppie Volvos. People with ordinary salaries buy Detroit Rust vehicles, or if they're very lucky, a used Toyota which will last twice as long.
Second, those supposed pangs of guilt, actually a form of humor. Somebody justifying betraying all their beliefs for the sake of comfort and convenience has been a standard tale of our generation, ever since "Super-high Super Fly's gone underground." This is just the current spin on the old tale. The only thing missing is the devil whispering reclining leather seats in the writer's ear, and the sales contract signed in blood.
