|
Medium RawAll seemed to have come to St. Barths over the holidays in order to find subtle new ways to say БЂњfuck youБЂ«to each other. With a smile, of course. We spent a somewhat less than romantic New YearБЂ™s Eve at a party hosted by the Gaddafis. That should tell you something. Enrique Iglesias provided the entertainment. A detail that lingers in the memory like the birthmark on oneБЂ™s torturerБЂ™s cheek. Who had the bigger boat, wore the better outfit, got the best table seemed all that mattered. There were decade-old feuds over casual cracks long forgotten by everyone but the principals. They circled each other stillБЂ”waiting to identify a weaknessБЂ”looking for somewhere and some way to strike. People jockeyed for position, cut each otherБЂ™s throats over the most petty, nonsensical shit imaginable. This from the people who, it gradually began to dawn on me, actually ran the world. I was lingering over the buffet on a Dr. NoБЂ“size yacht with the appropriately Bond-esque name Octopus: huge interior docking inside the hull, a six-man submarine, landing space for two helicopters, Francis Bacon originals in the crapper ...» |
Код для вставки книги в блог HTML
phpBB
текст
|
|