Exile On Main Street

I was in Chicago recently, in front of a big crowd, and gave the folks the chance to sing a song (to the tune of The Battle Hymn of the Republic), and they went for it like it was free beer.

It's time for working people to rise up and defeat The brokers and the bankers and the media elite And all the educated bums in paneled office suites And throw them in the street.

People sang this with great gusto, even the swells down front in the $60 seats. They sang verses denouncing the East Coast liberal aristocracy (which rhymes with Washington, D.C.) and "We'll take them out of first class and with a mighty cheer/ We'll send them to the rear" and a verse about Bush and Gore ("We'll make them work the night shift in a 7-Eleven store/ And let them clean the toilets and let them scrub the floor") and another verse against "the media, those mighty millionaires/ Who weave their little fictions sitting on their derrieres" and the chorus, of course, about truth marching on. The rabble got highly aroused, and some people could hardly contain their joy as they sang:

Let's reverse the social order-- oh, wouldn't it be cool? Down with management and let the secretaries rule. Let the cleaning ladies sit around the swimming pool, Send the bosses back to school.

Of course it was only in fun, but there was real heat in the crowd, good old populism blowing off steam, and after the concert, when the limo took me back to the hotel, I slumped down in the seat lest I be seen.

Everyone knows that in this country, if you have nothing, nobody wants to have anything to do with you, and if you have everything you could possibly want, people can't do enough for you. The rich are showered with lovely gifts; the poor scrape hard for bus fare. A Park Avenue divorce case is fought by platoons of talented lawyers; a man up for murder in Texas is represented by a clown in a green polyester suit. The hemorrhoids of the wealthy are treated like diamonds, while the poor lie gasping in hospital hallways. The guiding principle of American life is: don't dare not have money.

On the other hand, populist though you be, you don't entrust your life savings to a friendly guy named Bud whom you met this morning at the bus depot. You prefer men named Calvin who work in buildings with pillars.

Years ago, I did a publicity tour for a book that started creeping up the best-seller list, and as it crept higher, my accommodations got nicer and nicer until I was staying in stately hotels with real art on the walls and towels as big as blankets and where the answer to every question is, "Yes, sir. My pleasure, sir. Right away, sir." Black Lincolns waited at the curb, maitre d's whisked me to secluded corners, and I never saw a bill. Everything was handled quietly, out of sight. I went around for a week with $40 in my pocket, unspent.