I’m the Cockroach from the Met Gala

Now that the dust has settled and I’ve returned to my quarter-size hole in the American Wing, I should reveal the point of my party crashing protest.

It was not, as some believe, a commentary on the escalating War in Ukraine. And why would it be? My kind has never been too concerned about nuclear annihilation, given our physical and mental makeup. There’s an old joke in the cockroach community that we were long pulling for mutually assured destruction between the USA and USSR amid the wild, heady days of the Cold War. In fact, an uncle of a dear friend, spent much of his middle age in the comfortable surroundings of the nuclear football. He liked the light and his proximity to the apocalypse. It was somewhat calmer there. For cockroaches, the Cuban Missile Crisis was a great “what if?” Imagine if we had inherited the earth. Think of all the garbage to eat. The whole world a giant crumb. The notion makes me blush. 

Initially, I wasn’t going to attend the gala. I usually avoid the museum on busy days – holidays and such. Too many feet to dodge, not enough food to make it worthwhile. But there was something about a single celebrity posing on steps that gave me pause. 

I want to be a star. I thought maybe, just maybe, these celebrities would recognize our obvious common ground. We’re not so different, them and me. I scrounge around galleries after hours looking for anything I can shove in my face. Most of them would sell their soul for a Royal Qatari production of Godspell. They look everywhere for roles. I look everywhere for rolls. Usually buttered, sometimes oiled, often stale, and occasionally with a subtle hint of mold. And yeah, I've been on the casting couch, too, a time or two. Tattered ones with foam that's a cruel memory.  

I feel fortunate to have been reared among rare antiquities and accessible bathrooms. So I don’t receive the press like more glamorous New Yorkers; namely, the pizza rats and the bagel pigeons. But I’m here, doing my thing, appreciating art in my own special way.  

I have more class in my little antennae than most celebs have in their entire surgically-enhanced bodies. Perspective changes how you see the world. Most people don’t give the treads of their shoes much thought. I do. Or I did. When I’m spotted, people asked, “what is that?” instead of “who is that?” 

That hurts. 

Naturally, I’m a Buddhist. I was like these people once. Clamoring for a sitcom or my name on the marquee. Now I appreciate the little things. Like day old coffee cake and spoiled milk. Here’s hoping the Met does a food exhibit one of these days. You’d think with all those Cezannes in the museum a roach could find a decent stone fruit.

Alas, it's not meant to be. Just organic smoothies and a case of White Claw. Till next year.