Yesterday, by accident, I found myself swallowed whole by a drug-crime documentary about something called Operation Odessa -- the tale, among other things, of a mobster who brokered an attempt to sell a Russian submarine to the Colombian Cali drug cartel as a better way to ship cocaine ... a lot of cocaine. I couldn't quite keep all the players straight in my mind, but I was fascinated by the untold riches and powers of the men involved in this criminal enterprise: What does anyone do when they have all the money they want -- and then some -- and all the power they want -- and then some ... I mean, when you've got everything you want, what's left? Licit or illicit, the question remains the same. What's left? What resting place or whatever?
Based on the television show I couldn't bring myself to turn off, it seems that the only thing left is to brag on yourself in a documentary. But what does that accomplish? Is that enough? Perhaps so. Perhaps not.
As I watched these meaty men detailing their dealings, the lines blurred between their criminality and the legality of the bankers and brokers you might see in public life. It all rose above anything that might be called moral or immoral. Think of it: If you've got everything, what, precisely have you got?
Cars, bank accounts, private jets, the occasional killing, sex, marriage, kids ... E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. Some of these king-pins in South America sent cards to law enforcement officers in Miami ... Where are you guys? We miss you. Haven't seen you around.
The deals and the size of the deals was dizzying. And still the question nagged, whether it was a question for Donald Trump or for a man who made millions the way the rest of us might pick up a dime on the sidewalk: What do you have when you have everything. What meat is left on the I've-got-everything bone when you've got everything?
The documentary ingested me. It did not detail any deeper satisfaction or joy. Is "more" enough when you already have more? I didn't feel disapprovingly tch-tch about it all. I seriously wondered. Would anyone love God if they already were God (in a manner of speaking)? Is bragging on yourself a place of rest and ease and satisfaction? Stamp-collecting, maybe, or dog-handling, tuna fishing, portraiture ... something?
I was happy when the documentary ended. I felt like a wet wash cloth that had been forcibly wrung out. Drained. Not exactly wet but not exactly dry. Wouldn't you think that anyone who expended so much effort would have a goal to achieve, something that would fulfill some deep-seated desire, some ahhhhhh?
Oh well ... I'm not sure if the weird-shit-o-meter belongs to me or belongs to them ... or both.
You've always written, and so you continue to write. They've always strived to profit from criminal activity, and so they continue to do so. No goals, just what we do.
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