This Man Is Hilariously Live-Tweeting His Flight-and-Feud With The Woman in #7A (with images, tweets) · @theyearofelan
Our world is so small - I think Diane may have been my cranky ex-neighbor for when I lived in Venice Beach in the 90’s.
Man in a wheelchair near Sixth and Main. Blood on his shirt. Bleeding from the ear. He stands up. A bit whobbly, he points at the man walking away from him. Shouts his collegial rescindant profanity mildstone - the miscreant he wants to be or become or became and forgot. He shouts. It’s not noticeable, what he says. Or important. It’s not even a relevant part of the sidewalk tableau. What is interesting though, is the fact that blood on a shirt and man standing up from a wheelchair becomes common place. Ignorable. Redundant fascinate afterburn.
I am now living near skid row and everyone else’s challenges make mine seem so technical. So unfathomably obtuse. How would I even explain to a toothless blind woman what it’s like to owe Sallie Mae $135,000. To be more in the red then the dead broke. To be more in the red than the piss burner, the cardboard box dweller, the crack-pipe broker. To be more in the red and realizing even the world’s poorest man might have more money than Donald Trump.
Jerome Kerviel owes 4.9 billion euros. World’s poorest; world’s richest. Carlos Slim has 53.5 billion. He’s widowed; with six children. Bill Gates has 53.0 billion. He’s married with three children. Warren Buffet - 47.0 billion, widowed and three children. Mukesh Ambani, 29.0 billion, married and three children. Notice that? Three children each! Lakshmi Mittal, 28.7 billion: married, two children. Once he has a third I’m dead certain he’ll be near Mittal. Lawrence Ellison; 28.0 billion - married and two children. Bernard Arnault; 27.5 billion - married and five children (so he’s French, drinks more wine than Slim, enjoys life a bit more. Can’t disparage the bastard for that, now can you?) Eike Batista; 27.0 billion - who the fuck is Eike Batista?! - divorced, two children. Armancio Ortega; 25.0 billion (I sure hope I am getting my decimals right.) - married, three children. (See? Three Children. It resonates, don’t it?) Karl Albrecht; 23.5 billion - married, two children (own’s Trader Joes!). There’s little known about Karl other than he apparently raises orchids and plays golf.
Could probably say the same about the other nine, too. In fact - they could all be orchid conspirators, each with three children and thus the transcription to their magnanimous wealth.
The Sultan of Brunei: his bank account alone as a magnet creates 54+ million euros in new wealth per week. Not doing a damn thing.
Wikipedia says he has:
And 20 Lamborghinis
Bringing the total number of his cars to 1,932
Might as well link them together and have a kick-ass subway.
A man with a billion dollars might very well make seven million a year sleeping and sitting still.
Which all of this brings me to my next real big idea:
What would happen if we are all each given a checking account worth one million dollars on the day of our birth and when we die we need to make dead certain we pay it all back plus about six percent interest?
What would one million dollars do for you between the moment of your birth and the moment you even realized what money was? Well, a million bucks dormant in the most god-earthly conservative bank account would still generate enough return to afford a college education, ample social services and a resplendent supply of resources to enable you as an adult to stay out of debt and perhaps launch a business or two. This approach, as a macro-policy would translate into an ability to sustain innovation and well then, we’d all be boring and prosperous now wouldn’t we?
Instead, I advocate - strongly - my pathway of resolute mild disaster.
Here it is:
It begins with a couple: a man and a woman, similar in age. Frayed. You can tell this is near the end, the way they don’t even bother making eye contact anymore. It’s one of those maple Tuesdays. When the air is a bit sugary and it’s easy to forget things.
Yeah, if you’ll…
So, if not then no tomorrow?
You fall short in that way.
Yes, it’s unbecoming.
Unbecoming, you say.
Okay, fine. Full confidence is all I will exude from here on out.
I dare you.
Don’t be ridiculous.
Tomorrow, if not then, when?
Okay, fine. Tomorrow.
Fine, forget it.
It’s not going to be late night and we’re not going to fuck.
Seven, sure. Stop by. Grab your shit. Your’e out the door by 7:30pm sharp, understand?
If you insist.
Not sure why.
Why it matters. Why you even bother.
Neither do I. Just come get your stuff and let’s move on with it.
Can I ask you a question?
What do you think?
All in all?
Yeah. In retrospect?
Worth doing over again? No. Worth the ride? Sure, why not.
Me too. That’s how I’d put it.
Well, then why don’t you?
No, I did. You interpreted me.
Banter is all we got.
Banter is all we had. No more got, it’s gone.
One part of us, one part of our past, I’d say wasn’t worth the ride was when…
When I what?
July, last year.
The summer I forgot?
If you will.
Seriously, tell me - when I what?
Fine. Forget I asked.
You didn’t, I was telling you.
Until I interrupted.
Yes. Your damn tactic.
July 2009 - Hollywood Bowl. You said you’d go buy us another bottle of wine. Left me there. I spent the second half of the show worried you’d gotten sick or something. Waited an hour after encore, had to walk home because you had my ID, credit cards, everything. Four miles, didn’t get home until 4am and there you were sitting on the porch locked out of the house.
We didn’t talk for a week.
After awhile we just both ignored it happened.
I never healed from that, though.
Me leaving you behind?
Abandonment wasn’t the issue. It was your inability to apologize, to explain, to share with me the reason why.
Why you fucking left me there, goddamnit.
I told you, I already explained that. I got scared. I left. I wasn’t certain of us.
So now you see?
Why it is I’m telling you to get your stuff and get out.
Fuck seven. Make it six.
Can’t get there that early.
Better. Stuff will be out on the sidewalk.