The Dearth of Wealth

No one in the USA will rebel until they surrender their dream of instant wealth.

There are only three ways of becoming rich.

1.) birth
2.) marriage
3.) theft

And theft is only acceptable amongst the rich

For a poor man to steal a loaf of bread is a felony.

To launder millions for a corporation was a movie fantasy for the middle class aspiring to be a Palm Beach heir or heiress.

It is time for people everywhere to reject the illusion of wealth.

Fast cars, beautiful women, and big houses are a hoax.

The car needs a mechanic.

For every beautiful woman there is a man down the street who is tired of fucking her and vice versa even more so.

Big houses are too much work without help and who can get good help in the days of no slavery.

Time to think of a more simple existence.

A loaf of bread and a bottle of wine beneath the bough of a tree. Paradise anow - Omar Khayyam

That works for me.

I have an illustrated copy of Khayyam's Rubaiyat.

Jannah is the Sufi assassin hashish paradise.

"One day in paradise is considered equal to a thousand days on earth. Palaces are made from bricks of gold, silver, pearls, among other things. Traditions also note the presence of horses and camels of "dazzling whiteness", along with other creatures. Large trees are described, mountains made of musk, between which rivers flow in valleys of pearl and ruby."

According to the Koran and there will be wine served by immortal youth.

The quaffs will not grant drunkenness or incited fighting.

Obviously we Irish will not be going to Jannah.

Our home for eternity is Avalon.

Beer and whiskey forever.

Born To Be A Billionaire

Summer was the low season on Palm Beach. The seaside mansions were battened down for the hurricanes of August and September. The palm-lined avenues were devoid of Bentleys. The tables of the chic restaurants were wide open from Bice to Amici and the Leopard Bar was empty at 5pm. There was no happy hour at the Colony Hotel.

In June of 2008 I was writing ALMOST WICKED in the spacious dining room of a Spanish mansion. The three glass doors opened onto a courtyard, once filled with the carriages serving the Woolworth estate. That family had moved into humbler surroundings.

Too many kids.

Too little fortune.

Same as me.

No money, although enough to keep my families in Thailand fed, while I hide my destitution from the pitiless mercy of the rich, for nothing unsettled the wealthy more than the other classes requesting a loan no matter how small the amount.

One afternoon I was standing in front of Graf Jewelers, wondering how much they were asking for the flawless D diamond in the window. I had a client for a 3-carat stone. He was the manager of a luxury car dealership in West Palm Beach. His girlfriend had been married twice. The diamond ring in the Graf display was out of his price range even on 47th Street in Manhattan's Diamond District where I had sold jewelry for over twenty years.

Graf's front door was open and I started to enter, except a high whining voice caught my ear as did the blind man tapping of an older woman's high heels on the sidewalk.

The accent was Mainline Philadelphia and the age of the bejeweled heiress was of indecipherable decrepitude. Her friend looked ten years younger thanks to a dip in a Botox swimming pool. Neither of them noticed me. I was in the shadows, but I clearly overheard the older one remark about lending money to the non-rich, "They never pay you back, because they think you won't miss it, so why bother giving them anything other than a glass of wine and a good meal."

I stepped out of the shade and she astutely assessed my value within a blink of her rheumy eyes and her scrapping voice dropped nearly to a whisper in fear not so much of revolution or theft, but wary of an interloper hearing her inside game.

If it had been dark I would have stalked her into the Parigi Alley like a hungry dog hankering a snarl at a bag of garbage.

Within Two seconds I could have ripped the diamonds from her chicken-bone fingers. Broad daylight re-instilled my good citizenry and I entered Graf to ask, "How much is that diamond in the window?"

"$150,000." The salesman had seen my eyes on the 3-carat stone.

"Good stone." My boss Manny and I sold the same stone for about $50,000.

"The only one of its kind, but we have bigger."

"I bet you do."

"But nothing smaller."

"I like the three."

"It'll be here for a while."

"It is the season."

"It certainly is."

I bid him a good afternoon.

Both of us knew that I wasn't coming back, for the salesman like the wizened heiress assessed me for what I was, but he possessed a sympathetic graciousness, since he wasn't too far away from me either.

Neither of us were born to be a billionaire and I blinked in the bright sunlight of Worth Avenue.

Summer had a long way to go before I had to leave Palm Beach.