Archive
01/05/12
Superdome
Do I buy one or more of a dozen numbered Dr. Seuss images (Posthumously digitized from published books and cartoons And the detritus scattered in his studio, when he died) Or "original" Alphonse Mucha prints, at a bona-fide poster shop, This tourist-dizzy Christmas in "artist colony" Laguna Beach?
To ask the truth, who gives a Goosey Loosey shit, anyway, Which one or the other I do and which other or the one I don't? After all, it's up to me, and me alone, to exercise my free will, Show discrimination, good investment sense, expertise, chutzpah, In acquiring one or many, maybe half a dozen of both.
Then again, who said I should even be poking my head Into other people's Duke and Dauphin businesses, When they're dead-set on getting me to unpocket my shekels, Spend them on stuff guaranteed to send sticker shock up my butt, Buyer's remorse so far down my gut, I'll shit fool's gold, for days,
Until I return home, to find that I've been foreclosed on, evicted, And have to hitchhike to barely-post-Katrina New Orleans, To work in the reclaimed Superdome, cleaning its latrines, While hawking (at Saints games, boat shows, church crusades) Hot dogs, nachos, Bud Light in Drew Brees commemorative mugs?
But maybe I should be more concerned about husbanding my bucks, To afford our stay here, at the exorbitant Surf and Sand Resort, And the three rounds of facials, massages, manicures, and pedicures My newly acquired third wife's extorted out of me, So I won't stuff our love nest with "more stupid shit you call art."
01/05/12
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