before i begin, yes, ray-gay-ton is sick. that's the problem. not only is it sick, it's "ill," perhaps even on life support. i think this comment shows the true color of the man who made it. my friend, you are pink down to your underwear, which i fully expect you to wear on the outside, so we can check. my compadre, you tell me that "you hate anyone who hates loud music." well amigo, i tell you here and now, if i hear ray-gay-ton once more, i will puke as if i swallowed a puck, and that is not puckish humor. in the mean time, i will stick with baretto, mango, and candido, and any other prick whose name ends with an o.
now, to the order of business. the july 4th celebration took place on the 29th floor of a rich high rise in the town area. said building is home to manny ramirez, and some bitch who was giving the parking lot attendant a hard time. shortly after arriving, i found myself surrounded by more jive than can be found in the finest louis jordan collection. after grabbing a drink, i headed toward the dip, making sure to double dip. there stood before me a brother from another planet far from mine. he jumps right in and hits me with a "so what do you do?" here was my opportunity...
"don't tell anyone, but i moonlight as a male prostitute."
"for the moment, i am attending a july 4th celebration and am being asked a banal question by the lone black man in the building."
"temporarily, i am living off my savings."
"i specialize in public masturbation. here's my card."
"i watch youtube, take walks around a pond, and visit my parents twice a week."
well, of course, i blew my chance, and i told him "what i do." but there is no one thing that someone does. there is one thing that someone does to make money, but that is another issue entirely. oh, that's right; i am in america at a 4th party. yeah, i suppose the question does make perfect sense. but, think about it..."what do you do?" an honest answer to this question would take a life time, for you will be "doing" things until you die. what you do is constantly changing. for the moment, i am blogging. later, i will shower. still later, i will sleep. these are all things that i do. the question is really, "so, how do you make your money?" better yet, it is more likely, "so tell me, are you somebody worth talking to?"
oh yeah, i forgot another comeback...
"what do i do? i say fuck you to people who ask me what i do."
shortly afterward, i was sitting down watching the end of the sox-yankees game, when the man of the house walked in. of all places, he elected to stand right in front of me! picture him; a white man in his 50's rich enough to wear a beard and not take any shit for it. he was casually dressed. had on a pair of faded jeans and was wearing original converse all stars. he began to talk to the brother, a man who was obviously for sayles. talk of travel developed..."they say that berlin is like new york in the 80's." "yes, i've heard that many times." two stiffs feeling each other out, which made me go limp. it was a real status deal, as i vainly turned my head for a better view.
the cracker, who clearly had the bread to put on the ritz, had a book collection that was by no means butter. he owned books by two black authors, charles barkley and magic johnson. to his credit, he did own a george carlin book, bud sadly, nothing written by tim wise. he had no records or discs that i could see. punk. he was a pontificator, a prick that likes to hold court, a man whose money has enabled him to do just that for far too long.
the crib overlooked the city in all its shitiness. in the day time, one had a view of the various tall buildings that the white man has buried the earth under. at night, it looked better, but of course, even the elephant man looked better at night.
the ritz cracker with the bread had a couple of kids at the party as well. they seemed about as smart as a brick wall. the son was talking too loud, also holding court, and using the word shit as if he were somehow sticking it to the man by doing so. the daughter was overly loud, the type that says like, like 5643 times a day. children of undeserved privilege. somewhere, as i write, there is a man holding out his hand for change that is richer by far than these two children of plenty. in fact, many of the down and out are right down stairs from this family, while joe ritz spends his time building a wine collection. i had a thought to take a bottle of wine and throw it, or maybe to just ask if it would be ok if i took a couple of bottles home.
think about the money this man has spent over his life time on wine, or on vacations, or on his houses. and then think about the hurting homeless right under his windows. suddenly his good nature is anything but. how do the rich accept such things? does it naw at them while they sleep? do the thoughts sneek up on them as they idle on a carribean beach, far from the masses of poor in those countries who will never be able to afford a vacation in their own country? no, they have probably come to think, if they think about such things at all, that they are somehow different from these poor, that they have earned their status and economic success. the fact that they are still rich, or that they even got rich in the first place, seems to argue for this.
to be fair, every one was cordial. there was a cute three year old there, some wonderful dogs, and all of the women were pleasant and friendly.
ok, now back to bitching.
the fire works started at 10:30. you could see them clearly from joe millionaire's window. but first, two fighter jets flew through the sky, i suppose to remind us that when it comes to dropping explosions, either real or fake, america is still number one. and here, we come to another problem. how is one to justify celebrating the 4th of july? how many people will america have to kill and injure before this becomes a day of protest? surely the human race will come to an end before this will happen. in the meanwhile, i am a yankee doodle dandy working on a porn movie entitled "my country, tits of thee." living the dream, baby. but yeah, i heard not one ironic comment, not one mention of the hypocrisy of celebrating freedom while we occupy far away lands, while we house over 2 million people in prison, while close to 50 million people, including me and tixon, go without health insurance, and while prices for food, gas, and housing sky rocket with each passing month. and neither did i speak any truths either. it was all so very proper, something to tell the grand kids about when they ask me where the good americans were while the world burned.
and then we saw the works. joe six pack (or shall i say joe wine cellar?) opened the windows so we could better sustain the illusion that we were under atomic attack. i would have preferred sitting on the john, or eating a hersey bar, but by the window i stood pat, as i realized that osborne in the usa. fire works are indeed colorful, but so are the thoughts of the mentally ill. and while the display was quite impressive, even more impressive in its ugliness is a society that would spend so much on mindless celebrations while millions of people go to bed hungry and homeless.
while many of these same people, and millions more, look on and watch.
hey, don't forget to catch the holocaust memorial after the fire works.
wouldn't want to just be another thoughtless american, you know?
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