There Are No Millionaires Next Door.
There are some homeless drunks probably dead in the alley next to Trader Vis’s. I am crashing on a sofa in a friend’s dump of an apartment vodka smack downtown San Francisco. There are, however, junkies next door, and whores. No techies yet. They’re on the way and shopping for grocery carts they can move with. Self-help books for teens on the corporate ladder it’s never too early. My kid goes to daycare at the YWCA. Around here, young people form close relationships called the Bloods and the Crips. The only self-help book that’s going to help you is called: GETAEDUCATION, GETTA JOB, DO NOT GET MARRIED, AND NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER HAVE CHILDREN. Around here, your children will kill you in your sleep. It got very loud last night. Babies creaming, whores passing out. Then, gunshots party’s over, well, not quite. All my friends are junkies, thieves, whores, lap dancers, film directors on Ativan and bartenders who do music. I have decided that if I can’t say something that isn’t like fingers down my throat — the entire self-help voodoo industry is beneath contempt, the movers and the shakers got rich, not that rich, but richer than they were. The self improvers aren’t going to change, then, I should just keep my fucking vulgarness to myself and shut the fuck up and go to sleep. Who needs money when there’s LSD, and the weed will be great this year because the new strains are deadly. A publisher and a writer walked into a bar, and… OK bye.