Not Speichergasse, but Martin Luther King Boulevard, a name almost without meaning in a country such as this. Think of Rosa Luxemburg Boulevard in Mexico City, a city of revolutionary monuments. That town reeks of automobile congestion and rebellion. Then picture all the slummy used car lots that line the MLK Boulevards throughout illiterate America, from Memphis to Newark. Pizza Havens, Up Yours Hot Dog stands, Grill Baby burger joints, Pussy Galore massage parlors run by refugees. The kids assume King Boulevard was named after Martin Luther, the guy who killed Superman.

No wonder they call it the Redneck Riviera. Download the app for Gas Station Near Me. I went to an American diner—an American diner, mind you—and was offered a choice of empanadas, paninis, açai bowls, or gyros for lunch. $12.99 with a choice of drink. How many people, I ask, know what these things are? This was not some international market in the snooty part of town. This was at the mall. A mall. Mall food, okay? What the fuck is an empanada? Since when are paninis called American? Do I have to go to Tokyo to get a fucking pronto pup hot dog on a bleeding stick? You tell me! To Haneda Airport for a BLT! Am I a racist because I want a hot dog for lunch and not pig intestines with a slice of lime? Am I? What happened to mashed potatoes and gravy? What the fuck is an açai bowl? Who’s the racist? It isn’t me! I’ll eat the slop. I eat sushi. You gonna tell me that’s American? It is if I dip it into ketchup, I guess. All I’m saying: don’t tell me everything is fine. Pretty soon I won’t be able to find underwear in my size like when I was in the service at Yokosuka Naval Base. Okay? All right.

People no longer go shopping but have retail experiences. Not a shop but a retail experience versus online shopping. Amazon now offers a retail experience, having driven all the shops out of business. We face the insect immensity of the human hive in the Far East and yearn, at least I do, for cowboy solitude. Everyone in San Francisco is moving to Texas. Everyone in San Francisco is from Texas.

I introduced my wife, Phyllida Kyle. The man said, “Philada what? You say Philadelphia?” and he burst out laughing. I couldn’t reply. His laughter was so unfriendly. “Fill ‘er up. I don’t have all day.” Another laughed: “Bet you like to ride that filly.” Then a burst of the ugliest sounds. Part horse, part ape. They screamed. My wife and I shrank back and then walked briskly away. Oh, God, it was ugly. We instantly hated the whole fucking town and everyone in it.

The old fool throws decrees out like metal horseshoes around metal necks of those brave enough to stick them out.  Nietzsche was right. Only losers talk of goodness. Morality comes out of the sulk of defeat. Winners never talk of doing wrong. The defeated curse the bombardiers, rightly; there are only heroes in the victory parades. Women and children are called innocent in defeat, when the fighting is over. During battle, they give the soldiers love and encouragement, food, succor, often their bodies. Only in defeat can they afford to play dead. The defeated praise restraint. In victory, the same people celebrate surrender, for the other side. They would be happy to tie everyone up. In defeat, they talk about their pride. The defeated lay down their arms and lift up their fingers. They scold those in victory and denounce violence. When all is lost and cannot gloat, they praise peace.

An economic depression is emotional. We are despairing. Our cities are afire. Our minds are aloof. We count our chickens before they hatch. We gulp our food. We wet our pants. The once mighty people who slew the Sioux are hiding under their beds. My friends who claim to be masters of the human race wash their hands of it. “Cheer up!” They’ve washed the blood down the drain. The black maid is no longer black, she’s blue. The white masters, masters of the universe and of little else, can no longer get it up. From patriots to traitors, they have run out of ideas. The master race is bankrupt and they’re fine with it; they are happy to let others clean up their mess.

Tools of the Mississippi, slaves of trade, the master race now prefers foul to beef. They take their gristle with asparagus. Artichoke hearts and red wine drizzle down their chins. Their limp genitals respond to the Chinese lip-lock. Just don’t let them hear you say you don’t like Jerry Garcia. Our ruling class consists of potheads, flower children, who guard their gardens with vicious pit bulls in chiffon tutus. Dear Karen knows what to do when she runs into strangers using public space for private amusement: she calls 911 and tells them she’s white.

In suburban Denver, one can’t appear to be from Alabama. Don’t let people think you fell off a turnip truck. This is what our schools teach. Everything depends on where you’re from. “Dicks and cunts: which do you prefer?” You can only be a redneck if you’re gay. It is all about the right combination. Sexual perversity goes with progressive politics if you want to conform. Taking it up the ass is expected, with dreams of tomorrow; this will carry you to the finish line, like an IBM family picnic in 1955. Cry as you apply for a grant. Tell them how much you love starving children and diseased adults.

As long as your degree leads to a salary bump, who gives a shit? Just keep your thoughts to yourself. Don’t tell anyone you hate your mother. Keep the fact that you prefer prosperity a secret. Grad schools teach that the ideal life can be found in the jungle. MFA programs insist that dancers who barf are preferable to George Bernard Shaw. It is wrong to despise the cock-roaches in Mexico City, but it is okay to hate the bugs in Beverly Hills. It is hard to believe that this can be mastered, but it can, and when you are finished, you will know how to whistle while giving a blowjob.

Tea and sympathy served on avocado toast drizzled with truffle oil. Modernism has it all figured out. We regress. Back, back, back to refined terror. The disgrace of fighting; there will be no more sharing. The surveyors take over. It will be a monumental divorce. Someone is going to get nothing. We will revert to fighting to our last breath, no more funny business. No sharing. In this war, those who have everything will fight back, as they did in the Renaissance. Nobody can live in half a palace. Winners take all; not like the Quakers in Pennsylvania or among Hollywood celebrities. Old McDonald has a farm, EIEIO.