This morning, I got a message from my dear friend Ina, who asks why I haven’t written about the lovable Gucci Gang and their mindless minions.
Who am I to refuse if she asks so nicely?
So it comes to pass that the lid is blown on the coke habits of high society. So what?
Actually, that wasn’t even somewhere close to high society. Those people are your run-of-the-mill “people from the South” who seem to have a party life of their own. That one of their ilk just happens to be his/her/its peer group’s extremely twisted incarnation of an umalohokan just makes their exploits public fodder. So what?
I know people who take in tons of coke, among other drugs. They’re from the South too. Maybe the police are more lax over there. Who knows? Who cares?
As for my friends who take drugs, I love them to bits. They’re my friends. Since they’re spending their own money anyway, all I hope is that they don’t hurt anyone else.
As for other people, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. I hope the police catch them and their druggie friends and haul them off to rehab (if they’re first-time offenders) and off to jail for good (for all other cases).
I find it quite amusing that these people seem to have such an inflated sense of self as to take everything written about them on a blog so personally. If they actually carried themselves with any modicum of class or discretion about themselves they wouldn’t have anything to worry about.
There’s the rub. There’s an old saying about smoke and fire. You get the picture.
I read somewhere that their umalohokan had the gall to announce to all and sundry that his group of friends did not care at all about living extravagantly. “We’re beyond that guilt,” he/she/it said, tossing his hair about with gay abandon. No wonder his nightclub charges four times what my neighborhood bar charges for the same drink.
Maybe it’s the drugs. Who cares?
I remember Fat Willy’s used to do the same thing not far from where the Gucci Gang makes their home. At least in Fat Willy’s the air was rank with the smell of sex. Now, all I see are wannabes. It isn’t only in that sinkhole of a club where it happens. The Italian restaurant that debases itself at night across my wife’s workplace is equally guilty of such social sin. It’s a place to see and be seen – my milkshake is better than yours.
If only social climbing were an actual sport, I’m sure these places would breed world champions.
What I find amazing is that more decision makers and newspaper columnists eat at my neighborhood bar. It’s a watering hole known mostly to the Old Boys Club. Of course it doesn’t have the same amenities – scantily clad women dressed up to get wasted – but who cares about that when money is to be made?