A chance encounter with a tiresome Professor Marvel — an erstwhile carnival artiste whose abandoned stage name, The Wiz, had inflamed members of the Black Lives Matter Movement attuned to provocative allusions to a well-known band of white-sheeted bigots all hopped up on alphabet soup — on my way home from buying a pair of ruby red Nike Flex running shoes at a newly-renovated Target store in a commercially-revitalized suburb of Bangor, Maine on the Fourth of July, 2020 tipped me off to the likelihood that one could never hope to envision the true future of America without at least a passing acquaintance with the banal platitudes and clichéd generalizations about American exceptionalism that one might overhear while eavesdropping on an assemblage of fleet-footed, blue-and-white-Speedo-suited-up-to-get-laid Greek sailors on shore leave, sipping gin martinis poolside while encamped at the Penobscot Health Spa, located in an entirely different Bangor suburb, Greek sailors oblivious to what were to them the incomprehensible English lyrics of George Benson’s R&B version of Beyond the Sea pumped over the aquatic center’s jacked up sound system — all the while midshipman Konstantinos, who, though fluent in English, had been rendered nearly deaf by impacted ear wax  — and hanging around in late afternoon for the annual fireworks display financed this time round by an infusion of coronavirus relief checks that were, even then, bankrupting a proud people waylaid on the road to oblivion while making America Great Again, the aforementioned libidinous sailors discouraged about the future of inter-regional political relations in their corner of the world by disheartening thoughts centering on the machinations of a swindling hotel-magnate-turned-spokesman-for-the-Evangelical Right — himself spouting banal platitudes and clichéd generalizations about American exceptionalism — and his keen-eyed Orthodox Jewish son-in-law who, unaccountably bored by his wife’s seemingly interminable orgasms and thirsty for a cup of Hershey’s cocoa, was at that moment laboring to bring lasting peace to some God-forsaken, off the beaten path collection of sand dunes down the road from the Greek peninsula formerly governed by the long-out-of-commission Ottoman Empire, whose last Sultan, Abdul Hamid I  (a descendant of a corrupt Muslim mogul of the Imperial House of Osman), in flight from Turkey after a catastrophic war with Russia compelled the Ottomans to sign the Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca in 1774, found himself, one torrid night near the end of June two years later in a far off British colony across the sea, dining on halal Kung Pao chicken with a shady, slaveholding ghost writer — who, hiding his true identity, called himself Tom and whom I would describe as a red-haired hypocrite in a powdered white wig who self righteously shot off his mouth wearisome hokum about Freedom and Human Rights, an individual subsequently arrested by the police Special Victims Unit on suspicion of having had consensual relations with an underage girl named Dorothy who longed to get back home to her Aunt Zelda and Uncle F. — outside a Shanghai Gardens closed-for-the pandemic-but-still-offering-take-out-and-delivery at the intersection of Tenth and Chestnut in One Colonial Capital Known in the Vernacular as The City of Fratricidal Racial Division, hoping to be invited as an esteemed Muslim guest days hence to the signing ceremony of a big time legal certificate earlier commissioned by, and at that juncture under consideration by the Continental Congressional Special Select Committee on Revolt, Insurrection and Sedition all the while waiting for the much enduring King George III to foment a military shit storm by sending in a corps of obsequious but at times riotous and rum-soaked red suits to Lexington to counter a second corps of enterprising but nonetheless medically-attentive, iPod-donning Carolinian patriots attired in filched-from-a-New-York-hospital surgical masks and riding on saddles-rented-for-the-Revolution (on thoroughbreds retired from less-than-stellar careers pacing the paddock at Liberty Bell Racetrack) — the monotonously-diatonic harmonic progressions of a jazzed-up version of Yankee Doodle providing an incongruous accompaniment to a contemplated rendezvous with a mutinous destiny only dimly foreseen more than a century earlier by the more intuitive, far-sighted and politically astute settlers at Plymouth Rock — patriots social distancing in compliance with CDC recommendations in the hopes of forestalling an unwanted encounter with The Invisible Enemy stalking Americans who yearned for barrels of tax-free imported Earl Gray tea and who cried out for a Chief Executive who did not have royal pretensions or misappropriate millions of public dollars to fund weekend excursions to a Florida golf course or install his immediate family in official positions like some familial league of royal parasites (as if that could ever happen in a free America!) or spend his endlessly bountiful executive time overseeing the demolition of his one-time hotel casino, The Taj Mahal, a now decaying, bankrupted establishment on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City whose twenty-five suitors over the years, including one Lieutenant Stanley G. Gardner, were dismayed by dwindling property values throughout that declining seaside resort, the forenamed Taj Mahal in reality being an over-promoted, hyped-up boarding house that in former times was frequented by Polish virtuoso accordion players and members of the Indian Nonviolence Syndicate including an unemployed and crooked-counselling, devious-devising, Trump-supporting auditor and accountant with impeccable right-wing credentials named Milton K. Gandhi, The New York Times best-selling author of Growing Up Hindu in the South (and known to friends as the Keen-Eyed Emissary), who had only recently been cleared of federal racketeering charges by the Justice Department under the stewardship of the embarrassingly reprobate Attorney General for the offense of misapplying Homeric epithets at Gaelic Athletic Association-sponsored professional poker games (as well as a host of other predicate state offenses), but, having enabled an unlikely troop of singing hookers (on the road to inevitable stardom at the Rainbow Lounge and Bar at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas) to reduce their annual taxable income by setting up legally-suspect retirement plans — a fact reported widely in the liberal fake news media — was nonetheless, despite his unimpeachable record as a reliable ally of right-wing wacko causes, persona non grata in religiously conservative Topeka, then under emergency coronavirus lockdown, as well as sold-out Trump Campaign rallies in several other redneck strongholds across the Midwest.


Excerpt from Milton Gandhi’s New York Times bestselling book, Growing Up Hindu in the South: