Sep. 9th, 2005 04:40 pm
13 Gantry Row
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heatray5d13 Gantry Row:
I'm angry about a lot of stuff right now, but if there's one thing I'm really sick of, it's rich people bitching about how hard they've got it. What the fuck do I care if some rock and roller in New Orleans got his velvet couch ruined when the floating bodies of the folks from the public hospital down the street came to rest in his living room? People spend too goddamn much money on shit that means nothing except that you get credit from muggers and fellow hipsters for how iconic your little, white headphones are.
I'm a reasonably acquisitive guy, and I've made some really poor decisions in my life that have fucked me up, but I take credit for them. They were my decisions. My credit is a hassle because of it, but no one died, and I learned a lesson. I don't buy shit for the sake of fashion. I'll pay more to avoid name-branding myself if it violates my reasonably flexible ethical standards, but if I can save a buck and be sure no Chinese children were tortured to death manufacturing my kicks, slap a goddamn Sony label on me. I don't fucking care.
Seriously though. When did we become so fucking sick that it began to matter less what color our room is painted than which European douchebag with an anorexia fetish paid someone else to make up the color?
Enter the cocks of 13 Gantry Row, in which an ambitious merchant banker gets harassed by his wife into buying an overpriced fixer-upper with a view of some warehouses on Sydney Bay. They go into hideous debt on the faith that they will make a killing upon reselling the place. Who does this? Who buys a place to live for the sole reason that it will make them a few bucks when they sell it? Do you truly care so little for yourself?
You homeowners out there, when you were shopping for a place, if you had had an ominous feeling - like an undead Freddy Mercury was living in your walls - when you did the walkthrough, would you have signed your P&S? Would you have though, sure, maybe I'll get possessed and kill some people, but holy shit! Check out this vintage wallpaper and art deco entry way! I'll make like a zillion dollars when I sell!
So Richy Rich and his wife move in, only to be tormented by an unstoppable patch of mold on their sitting room wall. Driven to extremes by the evil lichen, the banker kills some people, and then dies in an unfortunate shaving accident. And then the wife is left to raise their unborn children in the huge house, with only her husband's life insurance policy and the giant suitcase full of a million dollars hidden in their basement. I am truly remorseful for her tribulations.
The low down:
zombies: 0
ninjas: 0
hot lava (in liters): 0
nazis: 0
breasts: 0
decapitations: 0
monkeys: 0
I'm angry about a lot of stuff right now, but if there's one thing I'm really sick of, it's rich people bitching about how hard they've got it. What the fuck do I care if some rock and roller in New Orleans got his velvet couch ruined when the floating bodies of the folks from the public hospital down the street came to rest in his living room? People spend too goddamn much money on shit that means nothing except that you get credit from muggers and fellow hipsters for how iconic your little, white headphones are.
I'm a reasonably acquisitive guy, and I've made some really poor decisions in my life that have fucked me up, but I take credit for them. They were my decisions. My credit is a hassle because of it, but no one died, and I learned a lesson. I don't buy shit for the sake of fashion. I'll pay more to avoid name-branding myself if it violates my reasonably flexible ethical standards, but if I can save a buck and be sure no Chinese children were tortured to death manufacturing my kicks, slap a goddamn Sony label on me. I don't fucking care.
Seriously though. When did we become so fucking sick that it began to matter less what color our room is painted than which European douchebag with an anorexia fetish paid someone else to make up the color?
Enter the cocks of 13 Gantry Row, in which an ambitious merchant banker gets harassed by his wife into buying an overpriced fixer-upper with a view of some warehouses on Sydney Bay. They go into hideous debt on the faith that they will make a killing upon reselling the place. Who does this? Who buys a place to live for the sole reason that it will make them a few bucks when they sell it? Do you truly care so little for yourself?
You homeowners out there, when you were shopping for a place, if you had had an ominous feeling - like an undead Freddy Mercury was living in your walls - when you did the walkthrough, would you have signed your P&S? Would you have though, sure, maybe I'll get possessed and kill some people, but holy shit! Check out this vintage wallpaper and art deco entry way! I'll make like a zillion dollars when I sell!
So Richy Rich and his wife move in, only to be tormented by an unstoppable patch of mold on their sitting room wall. Driven to extremes by the evil lichen, the banker kills some people, and then dies in an unfortunate shaving accident. And then the wife is left to raise their unborn children in the huge house, with only her husband's life insurance policy and the giant suitcase full of a million dollars hidden in their basement. I am truly remorseful for her tribulations.
The low down:
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buying a house to sell it
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Now either this is a person who is completely and totally out of touch, or I am. I don't think one fucking person from New Orleans could give two flying fucks right now if Fats Domino got out alright. I mean, sure, they don't want him dead or anything, but the NPR guy was making it seem like his life was the tipping point between hope and despair. The NPR guys said the Fats was the Soul of the City and it would be a moral blow that New Orleanians just couldn't handle. I really don't think that anyone had the shotgun in their mouth, and pulled it out, sobbing with relief, upon hearing the news of Fats Domino.
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Fats Domino should have been left for the fucking alligators. That guy had the money and wherewithal to leave the city and he didn't. Whenever I hear about some rich fucker who refused to evacuate in the fact of a hurricane and therefore had to be rescued instead of some elderly homeless guy who was being eaten alive by fire ants, it makes me wish I could kill people with my mind. If I was in charge, Fats would immediately have been delivered to the convention center and made into meatloaf to feed all the people there.