Money Over Everything
By Marty Lloyd Woldman
What are you then? No more than a Mickey Mouse car seat left by a theater dumpster.
Wait. Let me back up. There’s more to this.
So my job at present is facilitating the process of the conveyance of dreams… by which I mean I work at a movie theater. Each showing, I feed a crowd of strangers the essence of somebody’s subconscious longings, projected 20 feet high. And after, I haul the leavings of their collective dreams to the dumpsters. One dumpster is marked “Republic”. The other, “Progressive”.
Last night the kitchen staff was playing a song that is pervasive now. It’s called “Money Over Everything” and its message is “Money Over Everything”. Money over family, friends, morals, ethics, scruples, discernment of ideological programming. Money over happiness, enlightenment, understanding, wellness, egalitarianism. Money over culture, stories, cleverness, bliss. Money over everything.
And yesterday Jezebel and I went on down to the bridge at 6th and 35 to volunteer to help the homeless. We worked with a group to give these folks basic amenities. It wasn’t out of altruism that I went. My girlfriend was going and I felt a need to pay back some of the graciousness I received when I was homeless. And really I wasn’t able to help much, except to pass out clothes and grocery bags, using the understanding from Southern Hospitality that when you call folks Sir or Ma’am, they feel better about their station, no matter what it be.
Afterwards, Jez and I went to a board meeting for a daycare in a brown neighborhood that nobody in the neighborhood except gentrifying white folks will be able to afford. I lived in that neighborhood 10 years ago. All I remember is the roaches in the apartment and the family downstairs and across the hallway who made homemade tamales every Saturday and sold them to the complex for $3.50 per dozen. They were the best fucking tamales you or I will ever eat.
Five years later, I knocked every door in that neighborhood for Congressman Lloyd Doggett. 90% of those folks were brown and black folks who didn’t seem that they had an extra $1,000 dollars per month for childcare. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe that particular daycare center isn’t utter poison for that community. And if it is — if it turns out that it’s a Trojan Horse that will make one of the last hold-outs of brown folks in this ever-whitening “progressive” city — it doesn’t matter. Because remember the mantra of our age: Money Over Everything.
The radio as it grasps to its last clutches of relevance, has only made relevant songs of servitude; never songs of protest. A Boogie tells us our priority is Money Over Everything. Rhianna tells us we need to work, work, work, work, work. Jidenna tells us, Long Live The Chief. No room for fuck the man and tear it all down in that noise. The message here is that if you keep your head down and keep plowing ahead, you can eventually rule over other human beings.
And rule over humans is the glorious measure we get to enact whenever we go to an establishment with wait service. Even Joe Shmoe douche bag from podunk nowhere can afford to go to a restaurant once a month and order around other folks making $2.13 an hour. And Joe Shmoe gets to decide in tip form whether server person gets to eat tonight. And the poor get to make powerless the poor. As is the wont of the rich.
And each day I work work work work work, I haul the refuse of this wasted filth of the proletariat suppressing itself. And I get to decide if I get to dump my worthless vote of garbage in the “Progressive” dumpster or the “Republic[an]” dumpster. And none of it makes a lick of difference because we are all still caught in the garbage cycle of the poor suppressing itself, eating from the trashcan of ideology like it was a seven course meal.
Folks want to talk like racism was the only factor in Trump getting elected. That certainly was a major factor. But four years ago, this same electorate elected a black man to the presidency. Granted, he was running against a piece of human-shaped cardboard who learned how to talk, but if race was the only factor, cardboard would look really promising.
And a few days ago, at the theater dumpsters, somebody parked a fucking car seat in front of the Republic[an] dumpster. It was really creepy and I looked in the dumpster to make sure there wasn’t a missing kid in there. There were Mickey Mouse symbols all over the car seat, which fits entirely with the Disney modus operandi: get the youngins hooked on the fairy tale early and don’t let them know that we helped the world become surplus with all sorts of worthless filth.
Walt Disney ruined the careers of dozens of talented artists by ratting them out as leftists to McCarthy and his cabal. This was before the term “snitches get stitches” was invented.
That kid, whoever sat in that car seat, has a world of hurt in front of them. They were born into the Trumpiverse: the most horrible incarnation of humanity yet visited upon this plot of American ground. It will be ugly for them. It will be ugly for all of us.
I saw in the news today that Trump’s new top strategist is a white nationalist who hates Jews. That’s cool. We Jews hate his ass right back.
But why is he in that position? We should really review this. It’s important to learning our lessons. The truth is that we have white nationalists running our country because we value Money Over Everything. If this is our measure, then we elect a billionaire to be our president. Mickey Mouse is our mascot. Hitler is our ideal.
Money over everything. Work work work work work. Long live the chief.
We have parked all the car seats of the young folks we know at the mickey mouse dumpster of modern horror. Everyone helped. Some more culpable than others. But now we must either learn to enjoy the taste of garbage or set the dumpster on fire.