A Christmas Story: The Nature of Wealth
|Grikdog, Left Eye Dominant|
In the case of TV sportscasters, the "secrets of the craft" are especially glib, the art of motormouthing. The motormouth gives things away: "I never finished high school, I played golf. I won, I grew old, I announce golf on the LPGA circuit."
My favorite quote is from a notorious sports whore who famously (and obsequiously) reeked of Wimbledon Tennis royal aftershave, who said that something or someone was "packed like Sardinians in a tenement!"
Tourette's Syndrome, so fabulously bent it entertains a certain kind of cruelly internalized sentiment, can be wealth, I suppose. Occasionally, it supports a flattery of flacks who wear a magisterial cap and bells.
My life might someday be distilled into a flagon of plum picaresque scintillation, but not yet. I'm still a smug bastard who looks down on uneducated golf announcers making thousands more than ever I did, or would, or ever will. If I simply announce my resume, bare line by line, my auditors may sometimes be impressed. I shot my birdie. Once was enough. I picked up another pebble, and another. When, I wonder, will my jackdaw pile ever be sufficient? My wealth, like so many other ordinary lives, lies in my family, my friends. I was twelve years old my whole life long, like rock crystal sugar on a string, gone in minutes, in a flash.
I need time to crush a story from all that. Just not yet. Not yet. Wealth, I think, is meaning, e.g., December belongs to Mary and all simple lives, but I am a Buddhist, looking for bodhisattvas. I find them everywhere, and I almost worship Christmas.
Yup, snow this morning, and a two-hour school delay. I gather a bit of a homework reprieve because of it, because there are only four more days of school before the (*caff*) "December" break.