Bourgeois

I'm looking through you, the Beatles sang. Where did you go? Without intending to, somehow getting snared on the Sixties notions of "plastic" and "phony," (Mothers of Invention: "Are you hung up?"), I boho'd myself over decades into a veritable no-game plan. Some ass recently cursed me by calling me "bourgeois." Hmm. Took me by surprise. Bit of a chuckle really, a pot-kettle-black encounter. I should have taken it as a compliment, but one I could never live up to. Yes, the emperor is transparent. No mindreading necessary. You may not think you are your clothes, but everything is there upon your sleeve. Your disguise is your revelation. Costumes are nakedness. In my lack of appropriate visual representation, I can look back upon years and years of short-term positions and a dearth of professional employment. Nobody wants to be around someone who will not or cannot play the game. Curse or blessing? I haven't yet decided, but I'm leaning toward blessing. At least, if I can get through winter. Contrary to popular belief, some people really don't dress in drag. They don't have a social face. They may be as much game-playing, lying to themselves, egomaniacs as anybody else. Or they may be society's odd jesters, seeing through the masks and unable to resist popping bubbles. In the long run, though, doesn't this sad lot usually have their heads chopped off by those, the bourgeoisie, who can't bear to see themselves in the highly polished reflecting glass?