Name: Anonymous 2012-09-22 17:12
Anyone who’s written a book can tell you how easily an author is distracted by visions of grandeur. In my experience, I stop twice for each paragraph, and four times for each panel of a comic, just to envision the wealth and prosperity that this book will procure for my lifestyle. I fear that the writing of this book will halt altogether to make way for the armada of SUVs and luxury towne cars that are blazing away in my head.
Rather than stop my production of the (Poignant) Guide, I’ve reserved this space as a safety zone for pouring my empty and vain wishes.
Today I was at this Italian restaraunt, Granado’s, and I was paying my bill. Happened to notice (under glass) a bottle of balsamic vinegar going for $150. Fairly small. I could conceal it in my palm. Aged twenty-two years.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that bottle. It is often an accessory in some of these obsessive fantasies. In one fantasy, I walk into the restaraunt, toss a stack of greenery on the counter and earnestly say to the cashier, “Quick! I have an important salad to make!”
In another, related fantasy, I am throwing away lettuce. Such roughage isn’t befitting of my new vinegar. No, I will have come to a point where the fame and the aristocracy will have corrupted me to my core. My new lettuce will be cash. Cold, hard cash, Mrs. Price.
Soon, I will be expending hundreds for a block of myzithra cheese.
My imaginations have now gone beyond posessions, though. Certainly, I have thought through my acquisition of grecian urns, motorcades, airlines, pyramids, dinosaur bones. Occassionally I’ll see wind-tossed cities on the news and I’ll jot down on my shopping list: Hurricane.
But, now I’m seeing a larger goal. Simply put: what if I amassed such a fortune that the mints couldn’t print enough to keep up with my demand? So, everyone else would be forced to use Monopoly money as actual currency. And you would have to win in Monopoly to keep food on the table. These would be some seriously tense games. I mean you go to mortgage St. James Place and your kids start crying. In addition, I think you’ll begin to see the end of those who choose to use the Free Parking square as the underground coffers for city funds.
You’ve got to hand it to fun money, though. Fake money rules. You can get your hands on it so quickly. For a moment, it seems like you’re crazy rich. When I was a kid, I got with some of the neighborhood kids and we built this little Tijuana on our street. We made our own pesos and wore sombreros and everything!
One kid was selling hot tamales for two pesos each. Two pesos! Did this kid know that the money was fake? Was he out of his mind? Who invited this kid? Didn’t he know this wasn’t really Tijuana? Maybe he was really from Tijuana! Maybe these were real pesos! Let’s go make more real pesos!
I think we even had a tavern where you could get totally hammered off Kool-Aid. There’s nothing like a bunch of kids stumbling around, mumbling incoherently with punchy red clown lips.
Rather than stop my production of the (Poignant) Guide, I’ve reserved this space as a safety zone for pouring my empty and vain wishes.
Today I was at this Italian restaraunt, Granado’s, and I was paying my bill. Happened to notice (under glass) a bottle of balsamic vinegar going for $150. Fairly small. I could conceal it in my palm. Aged twenty-two years.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that bottle. It is often an accessory in some of these obsessive fantasies. In one fantasy, I walk into the restaraunt, toss a stack of greenery on the counter and earnestly say to the cashier, “Quick! I have an important salad to make!”
In another, related fantasy, I am throwing away lettuce. Such roughage isn’t befitting of my new vinegar. No, I will have come to a point where the fame and the aristocracy will have corrupted me to my core. My new lettuce will be cash. Cold, hard cash, Mrs. Price.
Soon, I will be expending hundreds for a block of myzithra cheese.
My imaginations have now gone beyond posessions, though. Certainly, I have thought through my acquisition of grecian urns, motorcades, airlines, pyramids, dinosaur bones. Occassionally I’ll see wind-tossed cities on the news and I’ll jot down on my shopping list: Hurricane.
But, now I’m seeing a larger goal. Simply put: what if I amassed such a fortune that the mints couldn’t print enough to keep up with my demand? So, everyone else would be forced to use Monopoly money as actual currency. And you would have to win in Monopoly to keep food on the table. These would be some seriously tense games. I mean you go to mortgage St. James Place and your kids start crying. In addition, I think you’ll begin to see the end of those who choose to use the Free Parking square as the underground coffers for city funds.
You’ve got to hand it to fun money, though. Fake money rules. You can get your hands on it so quickly. For a moment, it seems like you’re crazy rich. When I was a kid, I got with some of the neighborhood kids and we built this little Tijuana on our street. We made our own pesos and wore sombreros and everything!
One kid was selling hot tamales for two pesos each. Two pesos! Did this kid know that the money was fake? Was he out of his mind? Who invited this kid? Didn’t he know this wasn’t really Tijuana? Maybe he was really from Tijuana! Maybe these were real pesos! Let’s go make more real pesos!
I think we even had a tavern where you could get totally hammered off Kool-Aid. There’s nothing like a bunch of kids stumbling around, mumbling incoherently with punchy red clown lips.