S T R E a M # 3 6

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What’s the worst that could happen? Yeah, okay, so maybe she works for the Russian mafia. That’s unlikely, you understand. Could be she’s looking for permanent residency—or whatever they call it. As you might’ve heard, those Russian chicks, they’ll go through A LOT to get what they want. ‘Least that’s the perception. Says she’s “spontaneous,” huh? This is a good thing, yeah? You like spontaneity, no? Who doesn’t like spontaneity? The dude that doesn’t dig spontaneity, who wants him around, huh? Come on, really, what’s there to lose? I know, I get it, I hear ya. You’re troubled. You’re concerned. She’s the only one outta—what?—a hundred seventy matches to reply to your, uh, your uh, “invitation to mingle”? Dude: Eyes on the prize, right? You’re lookin’ for fun. Amirite? Make a few friends, isn’t that what? Lookin’ for a “fuck buddy.” Or two. Or three. Amirite? No? Yeah? No? C’mon. What if maybe that’s all she’s looking for, too? Just keep it light, man. Like The Chairman sings, “Nice and easy does it.” Don’t dig any deeper than you gotta. Could be a dream come true. You don’t know. Could be exactly what you need. Besides… Come on… Really… What’s the guarantee you’ll ever actually meet her. Huh? Once you tell her how you make rent, she’ll prolly cut you loose. I mean, come on, if all’s she’s lookin’ for a rich American hubby, prolly she will. But fuck it, you know? You spot your target, you take your aim, you fire. Hits and misses, son, that’s all life is. Fuck that “grass is always greener” shite. You don’t know what you don’t want until you got it. You know what I mean. Buddy-boy, sans mate, you’re F. R. E. E. Sure, whatever, “lonely,”  but F. R. E. E. What you do is you find yourself a hobby. Still lonely? No worries. Like the old man says, “Bop your bologna.” That’s all. You’ll get along. And, yeah, there is rain in the forecast. So lemme finish, ok? So, maybe, okay, maybe, yeah, maybe, I dunno, maybe you should stick to your gut. I mean, who am I to? Your gut’s told you right when you’ve listened to it right from the get-go. So who am I to? But if I’m gonna be honest, I’m tellin’ ya, that gut of yours? Thinly lined, mon ami. Can’t stomach one hearty dish. Nope. Son, what I’m saying is: fuck you gut. You? You NEED trouble. You need to be in the THICK of it. I’m talkin’ way, WAY in over your head. See ‘cause, then, and maybe only then, folks’ll wanna read all this slop you scribble. “Everybody can’t be famous,” lest you forget, “but ANYBODY can be infamous.” The trick, the key, the whatever? It’s to HAVE FUN whilst being “infamous.” Long as you’re havin’ fun, who’s to judge? Who the fuck, huh? Dude. Cut free all that dead weight your luggin’ around—all that heavy guilt. I mean, really, who else gives a flying fuck? Your ma? Yeah, maybe her. Anybody else? They all got their own shite to deal with. They pay you any attention? They want somethin' from you. That’s fine. That’s good. That’s dandy. Just make for damn sure you want somethin’ from them. Then make for damn sure you get it. No more freebees, son. Gotta charge each and every one somethin'. It’s the American Way. Bottom, and then some, reached. 

7 July 2008 

[Postscriptum: If you’re in the USA, don’t forget to vote the Chicago Way: “early and often.”]

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