Dressed as a caricature of a billionaire in his yachting getup, commodore's cap, blue blazer, white pants and shirt, red silk ascot; I’m standing high upon the stone border that surrounds the Annex of the Treasury Building, across the street and down a block from the White House. I’m a Billionaire for Bush, and we’re here this Saturday in October to offer our counter protest to the masses of misguided liberals who have come to protest the war in Iraq, which has made us in the top one percent so many more millions than we ever expected.
It feels wonderful up here, not only because I have such an elevated view of the teeming masses, but because they love me. The protesters look up, see me dressed so fine, and they see my sign, “Small government, BIG WARS,” and they smile and wave and they aim their cameras at me. I smile, I wave back, I flash them the V for victory sign. I have done something good for the world. Life is good. Life is good to me.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Rubulad Rumpus Room
On the ground floor of an industrial building near the Brooklyn Naval Yards, in the wee hours of the last day of July. The room is well beyond steamy, and about the size of a suburban den. Most likely a room that saw years of sweatshop machining through the majority of the last century. Concrete on all sides, but festooned with amateur graffiti and young art. A brass band is playing a very rambunctious concoction of cabaret, polka and ska.
The dancers wear jet black wigs, minimal thongs, and tassled tops. All but one of them is certifiably female. There is room enough to turn in place, but little more, and the dancers rely upon the horns to make room for them, especially the trombone, either from the physical imposition of their dull brass instruments, or the bright brass noise. The dancers are drenched in sweat, as is everyone in the room. But while we slog around in our sopping clothes, they, glistening and slippery, have the advantage. The pom poms they brandish are also sweaty, and although they are also pungent of countless performances and storage among costumes and boots, hats and wigs, I drink in every blow, like a supplicant in a $150/hr "dungeon."
The dancers wear jet black wigs, minimal thongs, and tassled tops. All but one of them is certifiably female. There is room enough to turn in place, but little more, and the dancers rely upon the horns to make room for them, especially the trombone, either from the physical imposition of their dull brass instruments, or the bright brass noise. The dancers are drenched in sweat, as is everyone in the room. But while we slog around in our sopping clothes, they, glistening and slippery, have the advantage. The pom poms they brandish are also sweaty, and although they are also pungent of countless performances and storage among costumes and boots, hats and wigs, I drink in every blow, like a supplicant in a $150/hr "dungeon."
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