Thursday, June 24, 2010
It was a problem you can only come up with if you are never worth anything but the designer suits you wear: he needed evidence of himself. Evidence, evidence, evidence. He filled a house with all of his receipts, because he could afford to. He wrote his name in the books he took out of the library and the ones he gave to charity. He gave money to colleges he didn't attend so that he could be on plaques in front of wings and libraries and auditoriums. He was the sponsor of scholarships that were for interest in nuclear science and others that were for the deconstruction of every nuclear power plant in the world. He got speeding tickets so cops would write his name in their little books. He was bad at parties; one time he met this girl that was kind of cute but he never worked up the nerve to ask her number.