Chelois alone, is an American pirate, he is Jonny Depp as a pirate, he’s a Somalian pirate, a sommelier pirate, he is a hacker hero, he is hip, he is jazz, he is secretive, he is Gatsby, he is slumbering upon his ship, he is the American Dream. He is a thief in a glass, he is slightly queer. Steal a look into his eyes: See how they shine like black pearls, see how dreamy they are. He is involved in a mob, a collective, an assemblage of a society of grapes, a grouping of other hybrids, in the Rat Pack, as I call them, and he is the Pack Master, tenacious, hardworking, lean medium-bodied and build, sings notes with earthy overtones and pouty crooner lips that shine like wet berries. He is a will o’ the wisp. He is an illusion.
Look harder, he said to me. What do you see? What do you see? he asked me. Do you see our past? Our hope for the future? Do you see your grandfather? Your father? Brother? Do you see your future nephews? Nieces? Do you see America singing? Is America awake? Did the dream explode? Does it matter? Is this our idea of progress? What’s in a name? Is it’s name a facade, is it the fake books that went unread in Gatsby’s library? Read them. Read this red leather book with a French currents. Here – take this bottle.
