Gold, gold, gold.
Someone was bound to find it. Dig it up. Weigh it. Price it. I wonder who was the first person to say "This mustard-colored rock's gotta be worth something."
I'm remembering an Andy Warhol story, how he started painting money after a lady friend asked him "Well, what do you love most?"
Loving money is traumatic. It's always coming and going, switching hands, hanging out of some stripper's G-string.
I remember in kindergarden, being asked how I would make money when I grew up. "Veterinarian," I said because I wanted to bandage dogs.
In my public high school, we learned how to balance check books--there was a whole class on it.
I wish no one had to love money. I wish it didn't matter. No more poor people getting fat because they can't afford vegetables. No more humane societies killing dogs. All the kids who want to go to school in New York can just go.
Then I wonder: What would New York be without money? Or Los Angeles?
O America, land of a million sunset traumas, even now I hear the greasers in abandoned Allegheny junk-houses whisper...