It is freezing and 5 a.m.

I can’t sleep, so I’m watching TV in my RV. I watch Paris Hilton climb like some beautiful preying mantis from a Bentley. I’m not really sure what a Bentley is–I mean, it’s a car. I get that much. But who is/was “Bentley”? The car is shown in rap videos and on MTV’s “Cribs”. I’ve never been that impressed. So what makes Bentley such a hot-shit car designer that he can command hundreds of thousands of dollars for one of these rides? Was Bentley Benson’s older, more successful brother? For those of you who don’t remember (or are too young to have seen the show), Benson was an 80’s sitcom about a black butler who worked for a slightly-corrupt white state governor. Like I said, he was the butler…but I think he might have also been the Gov’s personal assistant, too. I was never really clear on that plot point. Regardless of job title, Benson wasn’t worried about getting fired, as he always had some smart-ass attitude that put the Gov in his place. The show also featured a mean German hausfrau who might (or might not) have been a Nazi and was (I think) supposed to be the Gov’s maid. When I got older and more perverse in my sitcom analysis skills, I figured the German maid also performed certain sexual services for the Gov–most probably as a dominatrix. I used to watch Benson when I was a kid. My family watched a lot of sitcoms. I don’t watch any now.

I’m not sure why I have made the connection between Benson and Bentley…or how Paris Hilton comes into this. I just know it’s cold. My neighbor described the weather earlier as “colder than a well-digger’s ass” and I laughed politely even though I’m not sure if digging wells is even a viable employment opportunity anymore. Watching Paris Hilton get out of a Bentley, unfolding her long legs onto warm Hollywood pavement, and walking like a confident hotel magnate’s daughter into some uber-cool Hollywood club is almost too much for me to take. I mean, it is REALLY cold and I’m pretty much living in a van down by the river in Fort Payne, Alabama. Why can’t I be driving a Bentley, tooling around California with nothing on my mind but Paris Hilton’s long legs and how many bottles of Kristal I’m going to drink that night in some swanky club with a name like Plant? Damn it’s cold.

There are lots of young and impossibly beautiful L.A. kids around Paris. Their lives are measured out in twitter updates and the flashes of papparazzi cameras. I hate them all. I have these bizarre violent fantasies in which I am dressed as an Aztec high priest and all these pathetic little rich kids are stretched out on a sacrificial altar on top of one of those step-sided Mexican pyramids. All of the rich kids are perfectly-tanned and beautiful. Their haircuts cost more than my Honda. They are wearing the coolest clothes, the coolest sunglasses. They wear Philippe Patek or Rolex watches, and look at them, tap them impatiently. Yawn. “Can you, like, PLEASE hurry this up, dude?” they ask me. “Like, I’ve gotta jet, I’m gonna be late for brunch with Amah, Dakota and Manning.” So I mumble some Aztec sacrificial mumbo-jumbo and eviscerate them and sell whatever gore I get on an early morning infomercial where there is always only 5 minutes left to take advantage of this fabulous once-in-a-lifetime offer.

I will never be like them. Did I miss the memo? Everyone is selling something now. I can’t think of anything I want…or have to sell. Maybe it’s just good, old-fashioned jealousy. Maybe I just want to be them. Or know them. And I refer to knowing them both in the biblical, Old Testament way…and in the sense that we could be friends. It would be like the HBO series, Entourage.

So I imagine they are my BFF’s and any minute now my cell phone will ring…

It doesn’t.

It’s cold here.


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