Wednesday, December 03, 2008

They're taking my boys away

Today, for me, is Black Wednesday.
Why, you ask? Because they're taking my boys away.
First Plaxico Burress, who I know I will miss sorely at some point in January. And then, a bit more immediately close to home, Hank Paulson and Ben Bernanke. Complete strangers are coming to the studio today, sometime between one and three, armed with bubble wrap and something called "slip cartons" to pack up and cart away "The Screaming Pope" and "The Annotated Fed."

And while you know, having received payment and all that, that the day will come (the way any parent knows the day will come when the child says something to the effect of "Hey Dad, shove it up your ass. I'm out of here.") when the paintings will go away, that doesn't make it any less of a wrench.
my father was a tattoo artist in Haiphong
but his designs on mother didn't last too long
my mother sold her body, high on Betel nuts
my job was bringing red-faced monsieurs to our huts
selling your mom is a wrench
perfume can cover a stench
that's what I learned from the French

then it all changed with Dien Bien Phu
the frogs went home. Who came? Guess who?
are you surprised we went insane
with dollars pouring down like rain?
businessmen never rob banks
you can sell shit and get thanks
that's what I learned from the Yanks

I'm fed up with small-time hustles
I'm too good to waste my talent for greed
I need room to flex my muscles
in an ocean where the big sharks feed
make me Yankee, they're my fam'ly
they're selling what people need

what's that I smell in the air
the American dream
sweet as a new millionaire
the American dream
pre-packed, ready-to-wear
the American dream
fat, like a chocolate eclair
as you suck out the cream

luck by the tail
how can you fail?
and best of all, it's for sale
the American dream

greasy chinks make life so sleazy
in the States I'll have a club that's four-starred
men like me there have things easy
they have a lawyer and a body-guard
to the Johns there I'll sell blondes there
that they can charge on a card

what's that I smell in the air?
the American dream
sweet as a suite in Bel-air
the American dream
girls can buy tits by the pair
the American dream
bald people think they'll grow hair
the American dream
call girls are lining time square
the American dream
bums there have money to spare
the American dream
cars that have bars take you there
the American dream
on stage each night: Fred Astaire
the American dream

shlitz down the drain!
pop the Champagne!
it's time we all entertain
my American dream!


come ev'ryone, come and share
the American dream
name what you want and it's there
the American dream
spend and have money to spare
the American dream
live like you haven't a care
the American dream
what other place can compare
the American dream
come and get more than your share
the American dream

there I will crown
Miss Chinatown
all yours for ten percent down


the American dream!
Remind me sometime to tell you about my then friend Jay Van Vechten and I scalping tickets to Miss Saigon in London and then sneaking into the empty box right above the stage.

The operative lyrics here are, of course:
selling your mom is a wrench
perfume can cover a stench
that's what I learned from the French
Selling your painting's a wrench ... is all I'm saying. And it's not even like that scene in "Sophie's Choice" where she has to pick one. They're taking both of them away.

Thank God "Woody Alan Greenspan" remains. And let me tell you this.
What are you going to tell us?
Oh, right. Let me tell you this: It's going to take a lot of fucking money to pry "Woody Alan Greenspan" out of my hands.
Wow. It's like your channeling some weird fusion of Vivien Leigh and Charlton Heston.
Really? Then let me tell you this: As God is my witness I will never be hungry again!
That's the spirit ... except that you are constantly hungry.
True enough, but the idea is that I'll always have enough money to go to Pollio's and buy a half tuna/half egg salad hero with lettuce, tomato and onion.
That's an inspirational thought. What's that I smell in the air?
The American Dream?


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Geoff, let go of private Ryan.
Henri Matisse said "an artist must never be a prisoner...of himself...of success."

you're successful, in this this time. enjoy


3:34 PM  

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