There comes an age when most kids are interested in "tall tales" and "magic tricks" because of a natural inclination toward mischief-seeking and the petty bit of power it gives them over the unwise with the flair of a performer. It's all "in good fun" of course, and the adults reward them with ballooning expressions of credulity and tousseled hair for their efforts as "a little scalawag".

You figure out that one can "bend the rules" a little bit. . . . . because "no one will be the wiser". And even if they do catch on, you'll shrug your shoulders in a "who, me?" expression and they'll forgive you. It's certainly a rush, to realize that "you're smarter than everyone else" and can see vast potentialities where others are just wandering about the sad, slow course of things like drones. Even more liberating is when you can figure out "how to slant a story" to best suit your ends and get the most gains out of a system or someone you're trying to charm.

"Who will be the wiser", if you fudge a little bit on that job interview? Or ramble on incoherently on that essay question to pretend like you know what you're talking about? In fact, our whole society is based around sham and illusion which adults maintain by kidding themselves and those around them, don't you know. "Pointing it out" rips open such a shit-bag of "bad feeling" and embarrassment that most people "let each other be".

Like that unemployed bar-fly/alt-rock musician who scrunches down in his chair and sips from his beer as his girlfriend tries to outline the reality of the corporate world, "when to bear down" and "when to walk". However, this 20-something has been "walking" all of his life and the girl is foolish to think that she can change a man "and make this work" with a primer that he doesn't particularly want to hear as he cringes with every sentence. But one says nothing, and nods in solicitude when he says that "he's not as active right now" and is "trying to find his sound", as he moves his hands through the air as if feeling his way through the Jello of ambiguity.

Yeah. Sure.

One can justify anything if it's in their own self-interest, even condemning the politicians, seducers, and ace salesmen you're secretly jealous of for "the magic" you certainly don't have in your possession like a chunk of dopey, overweight shit.

The fury of the right-wing's vitriol hurled at Bill Clinton in the '90s was only indicative of their deeper insecurities and ultimate "lack of mojo" that made them impotent shriekers at those slick with the ease of power that got anything they wanted "and didn't have to play by the rules". But they did "play by the rules". . . . . they just mastered them and knew how "to pull the right levers" to get what they wanted like savants of the human character, veritably putting in a log of long, patient work "inside the system" and negotiating the hurdles instead of condemning it. Far better to learn from their example and empowering yourselves instead of being resentful.

Part of being A) a charmer or B) a manipulator is having an ability to weave a beautiful web of artistry that misdirects attention to where you want to lead your audience-- hopefully for the better, seldom for the worse. It's the difference between being a practitioner of harmless "white magic" or the sinister "black variety" that hurts people.

Far better it is to keep the attitude of "a charming old grandfather" taking coins out of children's ears "than playing for the high stakes" when an increasing web of "little white lies", that were absolutely not intended to mean any harm, and collapse like Enron or AIG in a crisis of credibility and deceit like a black, twisting mass of wormy bad feeling that haunts you for years.

Personally, I was in an awful space some 10 years ago when a despairing young man was facing a life without hope and felt like he had nothing left to lose. That is, but place his dwindling supply of "chips" on "long shots" and live the life of "the high-roller" he always wanted to have. He was living inside a cell-block of social ineptness that was tortured and made starry-eyed by the crazy funhouse mirror of our 1990's speculative economy with party lights revolving from the ceiling and advertising jingles piped in over the speakers promising "perfect happiness" in the revelry of "irrational exuberance" that knew no end.

All he really wanted was "a slice of the dream" for himself.

He contacted a girl he barely knew but wistfully remembered from his old school where he had been expelled in a traumatic ripping, a beautiful creature he thought he would never see again as he lay out weeping on a pile of straw in the forsaken dungeon of fate. But he put on "a cheery face" in his letter, not wanting her to know about what life was for him "in order to save face" and not to burden her "with the weight of everything".

However, she had scarcely given me a second thought-- let alone for the gaol I ended up in-- and was surprised. She demanded to know, wide-eyed and vacuous-- had I contacted anyone else.

Wanting to soothe, to comfort, I fibbed and said I had.

But then she wanted their e-mail addresses. . . . .

To the extent that I scrambled to improvise a solution, it became akin to a growing cancer that could not be stopped and eventually resulted in a long-distance unmasking that left only an appalled silence. . . . . and the termination of everything. Just what she thought of me, or what I was, or what I had been intending, I do not know and I am afraid to ask or ever know.

There are no short-cuts, and though you may try "to bend the rules", the one thing you can't cheat is your death. Live with honor, and don't repeat that mistake. I will admit that while I was involved there was definitely an element of risk, of intrigue, that made this escapade "exciting"-- as if I was "a secret agent on important business". but by the time the dust settled all I was left with was a guilty conscience and a loss of standing. But ultimately "the price tag" was not worth it. As a half-Jewish "bullshit artist", I will admit that much.

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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

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(Rheeee of Crickets)

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