I worked in Crazy Town. Crazy Town is a place that preys on the dreams of hapless gamblers and drunks and sharks and junkies and prostitutes and the demented and poor. Crazy Town employs gamblers and drunks and sharks and the demented and poor who often become prescription drug junkies and quickly learn to feel like prostitutes.
I knew early on that I wouldn’t last long at Crazy Town because I can’t function well when I feel like a prostitute. I also had to take on the thankless role of hatchet man & bearer of bad news.
I’m a good news kind of kid.
Today, I chatted for an hour with another refugee of Crazy Town and we had a few laughs and I feel better for the conversation. But the stories we shared make me wonder, how does a Crazy Town begin its evolution? What draws someone to that environment in the first place? If you are able to thrive there, are you by default someone of questionable character or weak nature? How long does it take to remove the stink and the muck?
I’ve had some time to think over the cult-ic aspects of the joint. The pressure, the mind-numbing drudge work, the confusion over one’s place and position, the constant fear of the impenetrable shadowy cabal. Even on its best day, a Crazy Town always takes away more from its denizens than it gives in return.
Paychecks, my lovelies, do not make up for degradation. Misplaced hope and a false sense of accomplishment does not feed the soul.
The house always wins.
canvero 