Post-Modern Drunk: A Weekend With the Super Wealthy
I don't know if you hang out in the Financial District on a Friday night all that much, but you should, if only for awhile. The collars are all popped, the tans are all deep and even, and the douches are bagged.

It's good to see the stockbrokers and the investment bankers having a gay old time–to see the people who will make millions through hard work and long hours, take care of their family, and set up a trust fund for their sons and daughters to move to Williamsburg (or whatever the W'burg is then. Probably Bed-Stuy or someshit) and make "art."

They live not so different lives–just with different shirts. Their wealth does not make them extra classy. I still had to–out of necessity–use a a urinal filled with vomit, just as if I'd gone to CBGBs (back when it was open). Though I doubt at CBs it would have been an automatic flusher–one that would start filling distressingly quickly as I walked away. Anyway, wasn't that the trickle-down economics theory? "A rising tide floats all vom"?

I was only 9 when Reagan left office–that period is a little fuzzy to me.

Anyway, Saturday was spent with different rich people–the people of Rockaway Park. Away from Jacob Riis Park, there's a place where the rich folk of Rockaway Park actively work to thwart outsiders from coming and sharing their beach. There was no place to lock up a bike (I bike pretty much everywhere, now). There were no bathrooms or concession stands–why would you need that, when you can just go back into your house, or go out into the sea to go number one (or number three, if you were feeling so inclined)?

It's as good a beach as any to be reminded that I suck at going to the beach–my Nordic/Gaelic blood ensures that the Great Sky Fire God's wrath burns me harshly, I hate getting wet sand stuck in my shoes, I never learned how to apply sunscreen at the beach without getting sand intermingled with it, and my childhood memories of Jaws make going into the water a nerve wracking event.

Maybe I'll get better at it. As it is, I'm just too worried and neurotic to enjoy it.

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Unconnected to anything–but the way to my heart=m'fucking avocado/eel sushi roll. An acquaintance of mine puts Sriracha hot chili sauce on everything...this is crazy, but close. I think I'm going to start putting eel sauce on everything I can find. Eel sauce on a hamburger. Eel sauce on a hot dog. Eel sauce in my bourbon. Eel sauce on the Korean Fried Chicken. Eel sauce on pork belly. Mmmmm, pork belly.

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"Eel" is definitely one of those words that looks incorrectly spelled the more times you type it.

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I realize that, after my last post, I have now officially become a kitty blogger.

Shit.

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A pet peeve of mine. People who refer to "comments" as "posts." This is not a big thing, but I'm picky about language, at times. I'm going to "post" this on my blog. If you respond to something on my blog, you have not posted on the blog, you have commented on it.

Obviously, I don't stab people in the eye or yell at them or do anything when people say it that way, but it bugs me in a slight but ineffable manner. So try to cut out the shit, okay?

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