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Jan. 20th, 2011|01:42 pm |
Burdēna grāmatas 3. nodaļa The Rich Eat Differently Than You and Me sākas šādi:
I was holed up in the Caribbean about midway through a really bad time. My first marriage had just ended and I was, to say the least, at loose ends.
By ”loose ends” I mean aimless and regularly suicidal. I mean that my daily routine began with me waking up around ten, smoking a joint, and going to the beach—where I'd drink myself stupid on beer, smoke a few more joints, and pass out until mid-afternoon. This to be followed by an early-evening rise, another joint, and then off to the bars, followed by the brothels. By then, usually very late at night, I'd invariably find myself staggeringly drunk—the kind of drunk where you've got to put a hand over one eye to see straight. On the way back from one whorehouse or another, I'd stop at the shwarma truck on the Dutch side of the island, and, as best I could, shove a meat-filled pita into my face, sauce squirting onto my shirtfront. Then, standing there in the dark parking lot, surrounded by a corona of spilled sauce, shredded lettuce, and lamb fragments, I'd fire up another joint before sliding behind the wheel of my rented 4×4, yank the top down, then peel onto the road with a squeal of tires.
To put it plainly, I was driving drunk. Every night. There is no need to lecture me. To tell what might have happened. That wasting my own stupid life is one thing—but that I could easily have crushed how many innocents during that time? I know. Looking back, I break into an immediate cold sweat just thinking about it. Like a lot of things in my life, there's no making it prettier just 'cause time's passed. It happened. It was bad. There it is.
tālāk seko pasāža par dēku ar Vrotšīlda mazmeitu un sviestainu ceļojumu uz kādu salu, kur tusē ze elite un pročijs bom(žm)ōns.
I soon found out that to move in this woman's poisonous orbit was to willingly attach oneself to a sinister global network of Italian art collectors, creepy Russian oligarchs, horny Internet billionaires, the wrinkled ex-wives of Indonesian despots, princelings from kingdoms that long ago ceased to exist, mistresses of African dictators, former-hookers-turned-millionairesses, and the kind of people who like hanging around with such people—or who make their living doing so. All seemed to come over over the holidays to say "fuck you" to each other. With a smile, of course.
We spent a somewhat less than romantic New Year's Eve at a party hosted by the Gaddafis. That should tell you something. Enrique Iglesias provided the entertainment. A detail that lingers in the memory like a birthmark on one's torturer's cheek. |
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