Hoist. On My own petard.
After taking to task the ridiculously-pretentious and insanely-stupid book "Restoring Growth in Puerto Rico" as the vapid incubator for tubercular cyanosis, someone whose intellect I respect greatly handed Me a copy of that same piece of garbage...to read...because "This is the hot thing with The Fools right now." Seems My near-future projects involve trying to think down to their level and reading this lamebrain "minifesto" is part of the process. I can feel the brain cells revolting already... Two things: First of all, I thought I was the hot thing amongst The Fools. And second, there are those of you who will smile prettily at My discomfiture here. (I'm talking to you, Carol...)
I am fucking sick and tired about hearing and seeing news reports about barely-walking dog food. I'm referring to Barbaro, winner of the Kentucky Derby, who broke a leg in the Preakness and since May, has received hours of news coverage and gallons of ink, not to mention more medical attention than any canned food ingredient ever deserves.
Now, I'm a huge sports fan and one of the biggest thrills I've ever had enjoying sports was watching Secretariat win the 1973 Belmont Stakes and the Triple Crown with a performance that still gives Me goose bumps when I think about it. But back then, I wasn't aware of the business side of horse racing, a facet thrust into Our faces now with nauseating regularity because of Barbaro's condition.
For you see, Barbaro has round-the-clock care by a battery of specialists. He has been operated on several times. His casts are changed frequently, sometimes every few hours, to ensure proper healing. Barbaro's been pumped with a series of antibiotics and other medications and has a team of attendants to make sure his every other need is fulfilled immediately.
In a country where over 44 million people lack proper health care, and maybe 2-3 times more can't get major medical coverage, the spectacle of a (non)fucking horse being treated better than a whole country full of people is repulsive. Hundreds of thousands of dollars being spent to save Alpo fodder so it can live to fuck mares. The message here is that money can buy you the best health care, even if you're a horse. But does that mean that Barbaro deserves to die? Yes it does: Better it than any human being.
Another Saturday, another period of boredom and this time, a single question without any real forethought: What is your dream?
I don't know how many people I asked. I moved from a mall (the location of choice, as you can see) to a coffee shop (NOT one of those latte-venti-overpriced pukeholes, I assure you) to another mall. The answers ranged from "Winning the lottery," (the most popular response; I've got to frequent better malls, I guess...) to "Dancing at my granddaughter's wedding" with a few violent answers thrown in. (Not at Me, but at The Fools.)
The only conclusion I could come to was: Nobody had big dreams. Nobody dreamt of changing their city or creating a better future for Puerto Rico. No one came out to tell Me a dream that would galvanize a group, a generation or a nation. If anything, the dreams were prosaic, passive, more "It will fall in my hands" than "I will make it happen."
Passive. That's the word. Maybe the active people, the visionaries, weren't in the malls or coffee shop. Maybe they don't go there. Maybe they don't have time to waste in those places. I hope that's the answer and not that We lack visionaries and dreamers. I can live with the thought that I wasted My time in the wrong places. I can't live with the thought that I'm wasting My time in the wrong place...just by living here.
The Jenius Has Spoken.