Headline, March30, 2014

"' WHAT NOW O" NERDY!? .......!^ BUT

 FOR THE GRACE OF LORD GOD ! "'

Behind me I heard the door open. Two young women entered. They looked shockingly demurred for hookers. And inept.

They each had shock black hair, Louise -Brooks-style, ironic black turtlenecks. ironic plaid schoolgirl kilts, ironic white knee socks, ironic black pumps.

The first looked midthirties, probably........ MIT class of 91.

The second was definitely...... Cal Tech class of '94.   The most bony-boned graduating class in school history.

"Looking for a date?" the shorter one asked. They were new to this trade and not very good at it. They gave the impression that they learned how to be hookers by freeze-framing their way through  Pretty Woman.

"I'm sorry I was just leaving............"

"We can do a two-girl show," the other one said imploringly. "I can dress up like Marcia Brady, and my friend does a great Streisand. Or, if you want, we can do Anne Heche and Ellen.............."

I shuddered.

"I'm sorry, girls, but I'm out of here..........."

Suddenly the shorter one grabbed my arm.

"Mister, I just got a margin call from my broker, and if I don't cover my shorts on Merck  and  Eli Lilly I'm going to lose everything that's left in my  401(K). For God's sake give me a break." 

I looked deep into her eyes. She wasn't a bad kid, just another  dot-commer  with dreams of airborne E-mail,  real-time  Sky Television  and direct Internet access to air travellers shot to hell.

Then I saw the track marks on her arms. Short seller, my ass. Suddenly, something about the way she nervously blinked and tried to avoid direct eye contact caught my attention.

"Jesus.........are you Sasha Kensington?"  I asked.

She dropped her eyes, humiliated. It all came back to me. Five months earlier

I had gotten a call from the managing editor of the hottest on-line magazine.

With $1.2billion in start-up money and an eclectic mix of high profile journalists; Boulevardier.com figured to blow the established on-line, partially fee based, content providing titans like  Salon.com,  Slate and   Inside.com right out of the water.

Sasha Kensington, managing editor of the Web site, had offered me $500,000 to take a job as a monthly columnist, promising me untold millions in stock options.

But I had turned her down because I would have to move to San Jose and because I hate people named Sasha.

Now she was busted out, down in the Tenderloin, flat on her face.

I have to admit, that there was a part of me that enjoyed seeing the haughty,  know-it-all yuppie scum like  Sasha Kensington  reduced to hustling her microscopic ass  out on Mission Street.

I well remembered the sneering way she'd dissed me when I'd passed on her job offer. Dismissing me as a poor man's  P.J. O'Rourke, a Triple-A David Sedaris, an eighth rate  Tom Wolfe, a Molly Ivins manqué. Ouch! Ouch!

But now that the tables were turned, I felt no need to take revenge. She was a feeling human in pain. A Damnhead, sure. But a damnhead with deep human feelings. A damnhead who was down on her luck.

Whatever the  dot-commers  had done to this society, arrogancewise, none of them deserved this.

I peeled a crisp Ben Franklin off my hefty bankroll and forked it over.

"Buy yourself a Niman Ranch-applewood-Briepanino Kiddo. And get some free range chicken and an avocado-and-proscuitto salad for your friend. She's too bony to do a good Streisand."

I grabbed my bags and elbowed my way past them. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Sasha speak:

"Joe, I know I treated you bad...........but the dream of providing a full suite of vertically integrated, text based entertainment industry buzz, rumor and dish to a high-income demographic group......well........I mean......was it........" 

Her voice drifted off. She was sobbing. Sobbing harder than I'd ever heard anyone sob.

Mindful that there but for the grace of God would have gone yours truly. I decided that this was one time I could afford to be generous.

"It was a good dream, Sasha," I told her. "A damn good dream. And someday that dream will come true."

Then I continued my descent into the bowels of the Tenderloin.

Behind me I heard her final words.

"Thanks for the hundred, Joe," she mumbled. "I don't care what anybody says. You great rock, dude. You really rock, and you damn rule."

Yeah, I thought.

I rock.

I rule.

Whatever.

With respectful dedication to the march and progress of technology and civilization. See Ya, the present lot,   all on !WOW!  -the World Students Society Computers-Internet-Wireless:

"' Live Students-Live Dreams "'

Good Night & God Bless!

SAM Daily Times - the Voice of the Voiceless