So I find it quite entertaining that there’s always zero comments left at my blog site when I veer left and write a half-ass political blog. Cairo IS an important event, my playfellows, and these events will ultimately be historically documented one day and probably mentioned when biographers write our President’s memoirs… and yet writing from a loud-mouthed, opinionated platform that is deeply rooted in the philosophies of Jon Stewart, versus writing from one’s first-hand, day-to-day accounts equates the likes of dogmatic vomit versus eye-witness chronicles. Well, you’re right. I know very little about national or international politics; only that I despise Republicans with the same distain as I abhor cow liver. And as Natalie Goldberg states over and over again, “Writers must write about what they know and only what they know.” So I’m savvy. I’m clued in to what you people want. You hunger for the down and dirty, the nitty gritty, the unscrupulous little secrets of trailer park living in a small, redneck whistle-stop. And that’s what I know. So I figure… Give ‘em what they want. All you salivating followers who secretly have wet dreams of living the high life like me but unfortunately have succumb to society’s peer pressure are here begging. You’ve bought into the pre-conceived ideas this nation has painted of “us folk.” Therefore, you walk around the planet with your noses scraping clouds’ edges and you play the part well. You say things like, “I live in a cottage in Carmel.” or “My condo in Monterey has maintained its value even in these economic times.” or even, “I have cousin who owns a magnificent home with two guest houses on 17 Mile Drive In Pebble.” Yet, deep down inside, in that intimate and private vessel where your truth resides, you are dying to break the chains that bind you and buy a ‘doublewide’ with a rust-free metal carport, upgraded awning and laminate throughout.
Well friends, it doesn’t get any better than that.
So based on your needs, I humbly oblige. I will attempt to quench your thirst…which by the way Space 10 did on his own Friday night with no help from me.
The phone rang at 10:45 P.M. and I know I speak for all trailer trash managers when I say, this is fucking late even on a Friday night. Mr. Alejo was ‘three sheets to the wind’ and the slurring was so plentiful, I could have paved an entire frontage road. My patience lasted about as long as a five-minute frolic, because have you ever tried to squeeze a word in with a chemically inconvenienced, part-time security guard who wears his uniform even when he’s “off duty?”
It’s not easy, believe you me. Finally I shut the man up by telling him, “Go right ahead and phone my supervisor, Ralph! Actually call right now! I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know, at 11:00 P.M. on a Friday night that your gas meter was possibly read wrong two weeks ago.”
Well… the beat goes on allies; never a dull moment here. So go ahead and have your houses in Carmel and your weekly jaunts to Whole Foods. I’m totally satisfied to live out my days in my prefab on the hill, eating mac-n-cheese and weenies from my Corelle cereal bowl.