Change You Can Feel

Yesterday before the clock struck 12, wrapped in blankets, hiding from the sun, a thought came to me. I should run for some kind of political office. Well, the campaign slogan was what came to me, the running for office part was incidental to the campaign-poster. The poster, depicting an affluent white male, well groomed and wearing a showy suit, a burlesque rictus cemented onto his face, hurling a fistful of change at an elderly woman broken by poverty, her hands outstretched in supplication as the pennies pelt her. Across the top, the words:

"Change you can feel"

With imagery like that, who wouldn't vote for me? I'd have Weiner as my running-mate, or Weiner "the dirty," as Google search's auto-complete likes to call him. I'd have to find some use for Jesse "the body" Ventura, in the hopes of making headlines like "Weiner and The Body, the Full Package," or "Jesse Ventura and Weiner Pinned Against Stiff Competition." We could even televise a tag-team wrestling match; Dirty Weiner Body vs anyone. The ultimate marriage of politics and sports entertainment. It would be a sell-out intercontinental pay-per-view event. I'd use the cash generated by the match as funding.

Wouldn't it be grand. The three of us, barnstorming and electioneering all across the nation, proselytizing our unique brand of truth from state to state. I can already see Weiner kissing babies, and Ventura shaking hands with a knuckle wrenching fervor. There'd be so much muckraking and mudslinging it would look as though we were filming a Mexican monster movie featuring Godzilla, Mothra and King Kong titled Montezuma's Revenge. 

Aside from daydreams of political domination, the weekend was relatively free of megalomania. I ate at an Italian restaurant in San Francisco that was so opulent it was shameful. Every need and concern was carefully catered to, nearly to the point of condescension. I was embarrassed to be so pampered. It was the kind of dining experience where I was shocked to discover I had to wipe my own ass in the bathroom. I began screaming out in confusion while seated atop my porcelain throne, screeching and snarling, demanding a servant slip on a pair of velvet gloves and cleanse my anus with some high-ply toilet paper. I screamed, "I have to eat with these hands after all! This is heinous injustice; insufferable!" Kidding aside, the quality of the food, was impeccable. Easily the best risotto I've ever had. Who knew rice could taste that good.

Saturday was spent sipping wine, driving winding roads, and reclining in the sunshine. We feasted on fried calamari and ricotta gnocchi in a tomato confit, before descending on dessert like wolves, howling with delight, our eyes closed and our heads upturned toward darkened skies. On the drive back we watched turquoise clouds gather on top of hills and stretch out like smoke over the horizon. I asked her how she would feel if I were an elected official. She asked what my platform would be, and whether I could summarize it in one sentence.

"Sure," I said, "I can pitch it. You have any change?"