A few nights ago I found myself at a party where most everyone around me was unknown to me except for the hostess who had called me the day before and insisted that I show.
"There is someone I want you to meet. She reads your blog and can't wait to meet you. Please come. I promise you won't be disappointed. She is super-nice and brilliant," she said.
Having absolutely f*ck-all on my packed social agenda I put on a clean motorcycle motif t.shirt and some discount pharmacy aftershave, fired up the ole hatch-back VW, dialed in my friend's address on the cranky out-of-date GPS, slipped in a 10 year old Johnny Gill CD and headed for the hills where the rich live.
I arrived late. I got lost. 'Never-mind' I thought my entry may be seen as fashionably late but no-one noticed.
I, however, noticed all the flashy cars in the driveway and stopped to admire a shiny green touring Kawasaki with middle-age crisis written all over it (I want one).
'Ummmm money' I thought as the too-fluffy resident dog barked at my ass from behind a large chrome link fence. Behind the dog was a glistening pool with colored lighting from deep inside.
"Glad you could make it Professor," my hostess friend shouted in my direction as I entered an immense living space with boutique furniture and ornamentation.
'Don't break sh*t' I thought as I walked over to her with adrenaline running through my bones.
She looked awesome. Tight black dress that hugged her stair-stepper designed body with highlighted hair and manicured nails of the post-press-on kind.
"I like your t.shirt. It shows you been working out hey. Aren't you cold though? she asked.
"Thanks. It's a WalMart off the rack special," I said with a guilty self-deprecating laugh.
"I like the motorcycle motif. Do you still ride a lot like you did in the States?," she asked as she waved her hand in the direction of a group of very pretty people of the post-race kind.
"Ummm no not really but I wanna start up again before I need help to get onto a motorcycle ... "
"You so funny Ridwan. Some pretty lady should have whisked you away by now," she said cutting me off.
'Sadly it can't be your married ass' I thought as she sauntered off in the direction of the pretty people turning just ever so slightly and beckoning her beautiful head at me to follow.
"Come come I want you to meet my husband. He is just back from a business trip to China."
"Nice to meet you Ridwan. Welcome to our humble abode," a refined older man with a full-head of shiny grey hair said from inside a designer suit the tenderpreneur and deployed cadre types ain't caught onto yet.
We chatted briefly and he turned from me after what seemed like mere moments and started talking to other impeccably dressed guests while I played out an updated version of Peter Sellers' character in the classic movie, "The Party"
Their "humble abode" was impressive to say the least.
I looked around the room and the adjoining rooms and exchanged pleasantries with folks whose clothes cost more than my car and whose teeth had that bright white neon glow like that Dog Whisperer dude on the Discovery Channel.
Rich and powerful people always have nice clothes and very bright teeth. They laugh and get serious and laugh again and if you listen closely their words drop like gold coins at their feet while over-educated peasants like yours truly hold onto their childhood fillings.
"So there you are Mr. Blogger," a voice boomed from behind me. I turned quickly to look up and down a gaudily over-dressed heffa from a trailer park nightmare that played on the horror HBO movie channel I was attached to during my graduate days in Indiana.
"Ummmm I blog a little. My name is Ridwan. What is yours?"
"Yeah I been meaning to meet you. Where is the Guru?" she blurted.
"Huh. You mean Mooi?" I replied with a little more than just surprise on my face.
"Is he real or did you make him up? Does he really believe god died the other day? Are you guys going to Tibet? Is he married or a Peter Pan like you? she fired in rude rapid order.
'Is this heffa for real' I thought as I let my eyes wonder up and down her chins?
I looked over at the other guests huddled in muffled laughter of the beautiful kind and wondered if life was just kicking my ass for all those times when I arrived everywhere with trophy women attached to my arm and other available trophy heffas hanging onto my every word.
I found out later that trophy women hang around power and when it goes the play ends. Game over. Playa dead. Dammit!
'We should call the Guru and ask him. I can introduce you over the phone. He will be thrilled to answer your questions," I lied as I self-consciously pulled out my 6 year old grey Nokia I bought in India for $20.00.
She rolled her eyes looking at my brick of a cell as the bulge where it had resided in my jeans pocket disappeared along with my ego.
"My other phone is much newer. It is at home recharging. It is a super smart-phone and temperamental you know," I lied feeling a lot like a dying dinosaur.
The phone rang and a woman answered. "Ummm Mooi is that you?"
"No you .... wrong number ... ," a muffled reply squeezed through the long-life Nokia.
'F*ck I have the Guru on speed dial and how can it dial a wrong number, I do need a new cell,' I thought.
"He is not there is he? she barked at me with the nicety of a Pit Bull belonging to 50Cent.
My nervous ass fumbled through words and I did as I usually do ... tried to be funny. A little humus and humor for the heffa.
"Ummm no the lady said he was levitating or lactating or in the lavatory or sumthen," I said smiling broadly and hoping the heffa would lighten up just a shade.
"Really," she grunted without a trickle of receptive humor. I called the Guru manually but the b*tch did not answer his phone. I looked at my watch and it was 10:05pm. 'Surely the Guru of all things coloured and insane could not be sleeping yet,' I thought.
And I was sure as hell he was not getting laid. That ship has sailed.
"He is not there I am afraid. Maybe he is in a movie theater or on an asexual date with those two .... "
"Never mind," she said abruptly and walked away taking my breath with her from sheer fright.
"Oh I see you and Rhoda got to talking. Did you meet her son?" the hostess said from behind my sweating back.
"Hi I am Donell," a frail twenty-sumthen man said offering me a limp-wrist-handshake like the Tabligh Jamaat brigade practice on unsuspecting Muslims whose lives don't revolve around nagging God for entry into heaven.
"I like the ideas of your Guru friend and read your blog a lot. He is smart. Why do you tease him so much? Does he get cross with you ever?"
"Yeah once in law school I put ketchup on his chair during supper while he was getting a drink and he wanted to hit me in the grill. He was furious and left the table in a huff to smoke ... well he just smoked a cigarette to cool off in his dorm room," I said lying about the kind of smoke the Guru sucked down while meditating in a flower or sunrise pose or some sh*t that had him balancing on his head for clarity or dexterity or whatever.
"But we been good since then and ... "
"Pity he is not here," the frail one said rudely interrupting me from laying out my ode to contested friendship and saucer-deep loyalty to the Guru.
"I would have liked to meet him and talk about the afterlife and reconnecting with energy that has transformed from the medial to the inter-medial and beyond. A damn shame hey? He looks so serene in those pictures on your blog. You are so angry at times. You could learn a lot from his contentedness. It could free you," he added with lisping affectations that made me wonder if he was not the Guru's long lost gay alter-ego.
"I'll tell him that you admire his sh*t, I mean thinking. If you or your mother need his number I can give it to you. He holds classes on weekends where he teaches transcendental stuff and Reiki," I said.
"That's OK. We will meet him sometime for sure. It is in the design of things and spirits. Keep writing about him though. It is the most interesting part of your blog. Maybe you should consider taking one of his classes too. You guys are entwined by destiny."
I watched the Guru-induced drone walk away from me wishing his ass could be "entwined" to that cold chrome link fence outside. I bid farewell to the smokin' hot hostess with more than just a little sad jealously as she said "see you around sometime" from inside a larger group of shiny teeth people.
I fired up the ole VW and almost drove through the driveway at McDonald's for a calorie-killing-McDrone burger and fries. I needed to get sh*t faced in a reformed sort of way.
But I resisted. I paid mind to my glucose levels and the daily needle pricks that remind me of the treacherous recall of faulty genes that follow my f*cking ass around like the Guru's reputation.
I'm so sensible and healthy now that it makes me sick.
All is good though. It has to be. Even if I am bored to death pretending to be living here.
The Coronation Guru (the self-styled prophet or perhaps more aptly, profiteer) may or may not meet the chinned heffa and her Elton John-looking mutha of a son. Either way his omnipresence will not be derailed.
His disinterest is an interest he cultivates like the opposing sides of the Ying and Yang balance that illustrates the sameness of opposites like the Gautama or Guru of all Gurus laid down under that tree a long time ago - and even longer than that.
As for my glacier paced social life: Well like my boy Rodney from West Virginia used to say: "This ain't right maaan. Sum sh*t's gotta give sooner or later. Better sooner."
In the meantime I wonder how much it costs to get one of those teeth whitening jobs so I too can look like all I ever eat is vanilla ice-cream.
Take me to another place ... preferably beyond the contradictory omnipresence of the Guru and his ever-increasing hoard of delusional admirers and followers :0)
Please Note: Anyone offended by the above post should pay mind to the fact that I absolutely, and without reservation, meant to diss your ass.