For a business to be great it must have a conscience. Hmm… So that’s what happened to American ‘bidness.’ Yet America wasn’t founded so we could all be better. It was so we could all be anything we damn pleased. And our government is damned pleased to be organized crime…

You know you had a great time last night when, after you sobered up, you reckon you need to change your name, change your job and change your address.

Now that’s what I call a party!

Like my erstwhile annual New Year’s bashes in North Carolina.

Politicians would be waking up on the wrong wife. Once intolerant MLFS would just surrender and dance until even their husbands begged no mas. And the Southern Baptists would be praising my ‘recipe’ to the Almighty. Had to dump the bathtub punch just to get them heading back to lunch with Jesus.

Damn! Those Carolina soirees were grandly bacchanalian. The ticket for entry was, indeed, the debauchery of the heart. No masks were required. We were celebrating with our eyes wide and wider.

Yet unfortunately we don’t have those home-cooked shindigs no more. For something’s changed…yet again.

But of course!

I know…I know… that change is the law of life… Change your thoughts and you change your world… When you are through changing, you are through… That you are only as young as the last time you changed your mind…

No matter. I know duh all the homilies. But the feelings still linger – like the stink after you’ve long passed the gas.

Our TV parties just don’t taste the same. And it’s not because my tastes,are getting more refined.

In other words: Tastes may change, but inclination never.

I really noticed it after the big Super Bowl the other night.

Actually, long before way-too-much Seahawks-colored confetti showered the TV screen like advertising dollars. I was already feeling…well…I was feeling violated. (And no, it wasn’t good-for-me…)

I wasn’t feeling disappointed. Nor disillusioned. Nor disenchanted. Nor any dis or dat… except downright violated. You know, sullied; despoiled.

In other words, screwed.

It plainly and simply ain’t no real party no more. Hasn’t been for years. It’s basically just another business. Like everything else in America.

Like college and professional football itself. The fun ain’t pristine. It ain’t spontaneous. It ain’t simple. It’s drug infested. Agent infested. Money infested. Career infested… and such.

Hell, it ain’t nothing but hype-and-ventilation. It’s the business of America ‘selling’ us whatever-is-duh-business-of-America.

More like sticking it to us. With ‘cheap seats’ starting at $4,000. And some 86 or so advertisements pedaling one ‘poison’ or another with $4-million 30-second spots.

Hmm… About as long and costly as some of my sexual liaisons.


The trouble is I’ve had more fun lying on my taxes.

In fact the morning after at the Twin Smoke Shoppe, my favorite cigar-smoke illusion joint in South Philadelphia, all anybody was talking about was how much they won or loss on the various betting pools. That included a 5,000-to one Vegas odds on whether there would be a safety in the game, as there was on the very first play.

Keith, my favorite-I-hate-people bartender, hit the big pool. Everybody else did nothing but bitch and growl. And I don’t think anyone was going to be filing anything more or less with the IRS.

But no one was talking about what a grand time they had at the big whoop-de-doo. Because it simply wasn’t a grand revelry…

It was more like masquerade ball of organized crime.

Well organized. Like they got us saluting to Old Glory while they were picking our pockets.

It was the full regalia of ‘bidness’ telling us – actually selling us — that the way to feel good – or at least warm and fuzzy-wuzzy — is by buying what they are selling – even if it isn’t American owned or manufactured: Booze, broads, cars and the processed food that our body can’t process without overloading cholesterol.

It’s all stuff — especially the game of games — that is really meaningless, that we don’t absolutely need. That is until we are evinced, convinced and winched by the repetition and redundancy of mind-altering, sublime promotions that we absolutely gotta have it – in order to get laid.


We are inundated with reverie. Desire is stirred. It’s like the 17th instant replay that tells us everything from every angle again and again – except that the price of tickets and cable-TV and arenas and parking and the beer and hotdogs are all going up next year. Just not as much as the revenues for the NFL, its owners and the players’ salaries.

We wrap it all around ‘duh game,’ apple pie and music. There’s even a nod to our boys in uniform dying not to defend our country, but to sell our wares. And that’s mostly military hardware to invoke the blind pursuit of a Democracy that, I should point out, we, ourselves, are still blindly pursuing.


When you go to a big party – and the super bowl is supposedly the biggest ersatz bash in America – it should feel – even virtually thru HDTV — like the first time you had sex: Exciting, scary… you don’t know what heck to do first or last; and it’s over way too fast.

In my case way-way-WAY too fast.

But this Super Bowl XLVIII was like kissing my dawg. My grandmother? Hell, more like someone who used to be Steve before ‘she’ became Eve… Or perhaps one of the hordes and scores of 13 to 17 year olds ‘forced’ into prostitution for those Super Bowl gentlemen who otherwise couldn’t get laid in a New York whorehouse with a fistful of $50’s. And even before the FBI crashed in.


And at this Super Bowl bash even the Coke tasted odd — particularly to a lot of dumb and dumber folks. Undoubtedly to those who hadn’t gotten their wick wet. They were actually kvetching about a Coke ad singing ‘America the Beautiful’ in eight languages. The complaints were that it was un-American.

I may be wrong here, but isn’t that the other coke? Not our prosperous Coca Cola that is abetting obesity and diabetes in a lot more than 8 languages.

But of course!

And then there were the sights that looked odd. Like the game’s designated coin-tosser — football legend Joe Namath. He fumbled the flip, perhaps because he was ‘in-furred’ in a $3,000 dead animal coat like a nubile Playmate coquette. Obviously, man will wear anything to get ‘sum’ – especially when he is 70.

And naturally PETA was outraged.


Would they have been as upset if Broadway Joe had been a vegetarian and worn a full length ‘leather’ trench coat, instead? And perhaps licked himself?

And then there was that odd 30-year-old freelance ‘journalist’ easily gaining access to the highly secured stadium as well as the MVP’s microphone.

The emboldened Brooklyn native strolled past all those thousands of specially hired security people. He merely used ID from a music festival he had recently attended to pass thru all the checkpoints. Then he sat next to the game’s MVP at the awards ceremony and barked on the microphone that 911 was perpetuated by people in our own government.

Hmmm… It’s all oddly un-amusing, isn’t it?

And perhaps I am a tad confused. Tell me again: What exactly is the bidness of America?

Whatever it is, it is something that has changed. I know the world hates change, yet it is the only thing that has brought progress.

Yet, what is really the odd truth about progress?

Is it like Jefferson stipulated? That the natural progress of things is for liberty to yield and government to gain ground.

Or, is it what FDR stated. That the test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide enough for those who have little.

I’m not sure, anymore. It’s all gotten too oddly organized for me – too much like organized crime. It seems they have stolen our dreams and are now selling them back to us – only repackaged… and overpriced.


           Well, it’s over…again… the Big Party fizzled. And now our attention will quickly turn to Sochi. And will the Taliban strike in time to make the profitable ratings soar on prime time TV.

And then the TV feast marches to March Madness. And then on to the beginning of baseball season’s endless summer, while the Stanley Cup and the NBA slap us and shoot us into more made-for-TV revenues. They’ll be golf at the Masters. And strawberries and cream at Wimbledon. And July 4th parades…

Of course the anticipation is always better than the realization. The party rarely – if ever — lives up to the hyperventilation.

But we still buy in, don’t we?


Over the years I’ve noticed that at most of these parties there are two kinds of people – those who want to go home and those who don’t. The trouble is, they are usually married to each other.

Well, I’ve been married – many times. And in my mind I’m gone back to Carolina…where I think I let the sun set on at least one of my marriages — after one of my arousing New Year’s bashes.

It would be an understatement to point out that these big parties on TV can never provide the fireworks that my home cooking did. Today’s vicarious delights are more like the end of a masquerade ball when all the masks are dropped. And we finally see that we’ve been fools…yet again.

But of course we will forget. And just in time for the next party — where they will be selling us more of the same stuff that promises to give us happy endings… That is, until we get the bill.

And dats yDrewIS on dis penal colony…


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