Beautiful people like me

So I did. It was slow, difficult work, but three painful weeks later, I was the proud owner of a popular online pencil store, my own mattress and several million dollars stuffed underneath.

"You have a singular, dreamy expression on your chiseled face," I heard a voice say, and I was roused from my nostalgia. The voice belonged to a voluptuous woman of flaxen hair, and it spoke further: "It's incredible to find myself face to face with you at this fine media party."

"Are you a lady of the night?" I asked.

She slapped me and said something I couldn't understand, because I was wondering what the future of media was and whether content was king. By the time I was again aware of this bewitching enchantress, she was making love to me in a converted loft, with her exposed wiring stretched sensuously close to her exposed brick. Outside on the street, poor people were chanting something about rent, and their sincere cries lent to the ambience.

"Do ... you ... like ... gentrification?" I asked intelligently, albeit breathlessly.

"Yes," she breathed. "You too?"

We finished and the card I gave her was one of the new ones I'd just had printed, with a blue background instead of white, and it felt good to let myself free-fall into sentimentality.

I ran all the way back to the party, at the end of the block, and arrived just in time for the handing out of cigars.

"Was an infant baby born into the world?" I asked.

"It's not a real cigar," the hostess explained.

"What is it?" I asked. "The new media?"

"No," she said. "It's money, rolled up in the shape of a cigar."

I looked closer and saw that she was correct. As the other guests lit up, I went over to the bar and handed the bartender my money cigar.

"Your finest brandy," I said to the handsome woman wiping glasses.

But in that very moment, the new economy went south and I watched my stogie unravel and blow off the counter. When I turned around I discovered even greater chaos.

Through flying papers and running bodies, I saw our hostess shaking in the corner, knees to her chin and a financial sheet indifferent at her feet. Others in the bar were crying and shaking, too. A small fire had broken out near the busboy, and a wild-eyed woman was hysterically trying to profit from it somehow. Nearby, some undomesticated cats had gained entrance and were swiping at each other unplayfully.

"Things have gone wrong," I said to anyone who could hear. "Very wrong."

From the pandemonium emerged Gus, of Swarthmore.

"Jump on my back -- I'll carry you to safety," he shouted over the din.

For an eternity we stared into each other's dark, wet eyes. "Could it be, a hero in this day and age?" I asked myself. "Unable to consider his own safety, only that of a stranger ... and an unkind one at that?"

My instincts told me to destroy the vulgar naif, but I valiantly subdued them, and climbed on the young man's back. Toward the door we went, stepping over bodies and dodging tasteful dot-com merchandise such as pens and amusing T-shirts.

"Out of the way, cats!" I cried, and we were almost out the door when the fire near the busboy flew to Gus' muscular leg. Down he went, and I leapt to safety. I did not have the time nor the inclination to save poor Gus, but on my way out of the bar, and then waiting for car service back to my apartment (hdwd flrs, grge), I planned the perfect online tribute to that great, noble soul. Not only will this tribute restore the good name of new media everywhere, but it will ensure future media parties and honor the memory of old Gus, who probably always wanted to see me buy a second home in Silicon Valley.

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