Interlude I

Everyone loves bartenders and everyone hates street fund raisers.  These are facts.  You can ask anyone.  If I were a person who felt my job defined my identity, I would probably be a complete mess from the contrast of treatment.  The bartender is the definition of cool, the keeper of keys, the dealer.  You want to be her best friend.  She can hook it up or refuse service at her whim.  You abide her as the dominatrix of liquor and you love her because she washes away your anxieties and brings you to a place where everyone is successful, good looking, and alright.    

Paradoxically, the street fundraiser is the scapegoat.  She reminds you of the deterioration of the planet: the helplessness you feel in the face of global warming, economic crises, mass starvation, disease, six-hundred pound gorillas stealing resources in a time of widespread scarcity, and most excruciatingly of all, she reminds you of death -- of the lack of control you feel in the face of even your own death.  Once you are down, she digs you further.  She reminds you that there are charities.  Charities are important.  Charities would not exist without donations.  She tells you that if you don't donate, you are part of the problem.  However, if you do, the result is abstract, intangible, and the problem still exists.  Finally, the alienation and confusion build up inside you.  You find yourself projecting all of your hatred onto this twenty-something-year-old idealist street fundraiser who is persuading you to donate money to a charity that you have never heard of, for a cause that you feel no control over.  You become so internally frustrated that you decide to stop by the next bar and order a drink.