Princeton Shminceton

There is someone in my life whom I respect a great deal, though I disagree frequently with her on matters regarding class position and cultural ethics and semantics. She’s a bit of a blueblood, and I’m more than a touch trashy (what doesn’t go with Mountain Dew?)
One night I was going on about how my latent pursuit of knowledge in the form of higher education at one Cape Cod Community College was, to me, enriching, fulfilling and finally, likely profitable. With a smile, her head cocked to the side and her eyebrows raised, she assumed the expression my pre-school teacher had so many years ago as I showed her the purple turkey I drew (the one with the wings on backwards.) “Well, you’ll never get a good job unless you go to a good school,” she said, suddenly turning from bemused keeper of the potentially retarded young Navas to Brahmin infantrywoman. “The people at the top jobs care about those things.” I smiled as I assured her that a great part of the reason I was even attending college was to use the wisdom I would accumulate there to become better at avoiding precisely the people she spoke of.
I’d been a guest at more than a few development mixers at major museums, ballets and theaters and knew that the only thing worse than having your toenails pulled out one by one with vinegar-soaked ice tongs was listening to the idiot son of a Boeing executive talk about how integral he thinks the pop-art movement in late 90’s England is to the plight of Europe’s present working class and how the 10 foot high crucified sheep sculpture with the three toasters and a toilet seat glued to it is the most perfect symbol for that which he speaks of. Then, sizing you up, he decides that he’s sure your dinner jacket comes from Target and not Barney’s, which means that for the rest of the evening, you’ll be getting the same patronizing, thoughtless tone and half-smile from him that he thought he wouldn’t have to use until he saw the parking attendant. Oh, why was there only one Titanic?
I am reminded of class issues like this on a very regular basis, not only because I work as a waiter in a fine dining establishment, not only because I grew up playing the sport of tennis (which I admit less freely and with a greater degree of shame than the fact that I was once a crazed alcoholic who made Margot Kidder look like the Dalai Lama) and not only because this country is embracing class warfare and the idea of a caste system more and more as the days go by (how many more shows about rap stars’ extraordinarily huge houses with gold bathtubs do you want? Well don’t fret, there are five more due to premiere Monday.)
I am reminded of this because a good friend of mine - a sophisticated artist herself - and I spoke today about how so many former small liberal arts colleges are moving in the direction of becoming little more than prep programs for the corporate ladder. Economics has replaced Humanities. Business-Builders has replaced the Peace Corps. Money has overtaken knowledge as the yardstick of true wisdom.
I am reminded of this because I see dead people. No, not like Haley Joel Osment. I see them when I go to Boston, I see them here on Cape Cod. I see them as they see me. I notice them as they notice me. We notice we’re the same age. We notice that we have a plan. We notice that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether I am allowed in their club. We notice they want to be in mine, though I don't have one, because as Groucho said, "I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member."
My friends? They base their judgment of a human on two things: one’s ability to love and the amount of bullshit clearly evident in one’s overall being. That’s basically it. A good sense of humor goes a long way, too, but it’s surprising how parallel that runs to the amount of crap in one’s soul. There are more people like this, and the funny thing is, they’re often the ones making the art that the people with the Prada bags want to hang in their condos in Reykjavic or simply prominently display their prominent name next to in a museum so everyone knows that "Artist" managed not to starve while "Patron" let everyone know how culturally advanced she was by noticing how talented "Artist" is.
It’s a crazy world. Someone ought to sell tickets. I’d buy one, especially if it gets me into the cocktail party at the Wilson Gallery afterwards. I want to mingle. (Just kidding.)