The rain fell my last morning in Manhattan, as if it personally disliked me. It dropped in fat wet polyps that hit and burst as I dragged a sodden case across 55th st. Mere hours before, less hours than it takes to realise last nights felafels have no intention of leaving your stomach either quietly or at a reasonable pace, I’d been drunk and warm and trying to keep my eyes off the midget porn. I had in fact been knocking back Corona’s and ‘Ass Juice’ with the Vitka and his filthy assistant, retired porn star and current roller derby queen, at a seedy punk bar in the East Village. In Midget porn, the money shot is not when a link of thick wet splurge hits chin, but rather the suitcase shot. After all loving has ceased, the differently tall sex worker on the recieving end is neatly lifted, folded, and placed in a suitcase, presumably to be shipped to the next empowering. On the way here we had eaten some cheap imitation of falafel, more of which would follow, perhaps in an effort to negotiate, in some (un)savory mayonnaise filled language, the surrender of the first serving.
I flolloped into the hostel, eyed daggers at the snotty eurotrash counter monkeys, threw my luggage into a laughably insecure storage shed, then raced downtown to spend my last, few, damp dollars on corny American candies for a hot, young, punk chick of my acquaintance; because that’s just the kind of attentive, modest, stallion of masculinity I am. Kind of like the one Ronan Keating is going to ride in the next paragraph.
At fifteen hundred feet above the surface of the spinning earth I’m struggling with Phil Dick’s ‘Valis’, the schizophrenogenic dissociative account of Dick’s gnosis that linear time is a perceptual fallacy; while on the cabin’s in flight video Ronan Keating rides the majestic but elegant beast previously mentioned through a CGI desert, singing – blessedly – in absolute silence. Through Dick’s slyly rhetorical postmodern dialectic my mind becomes fixated on the possibility of a future beneficent hyperdimentional me reaching back through the unimaginable expanses of linear time to facilitate my mental evolution, demonstrating somehow the illusory nature of ‘reality’. Is this Buddha, a universal or particular eternal conscience out of time – Grant Morrison’s alien visitation, Jung’s synchronicity? Is it a pile of drug addled shite spouted by a narcissistic middle aged science fiction writer, struggling to compete in an L. Ron cornered market?
On four screens at once, Mr Bean, posing as a barber, infinitely more amusing without the laughter track, shaves off a mans toupee, then attempts to repair the damage with glue and scraps of shop floor hair. I try to ignore the doughy unattractiveness of the Irish heads around me, raise my dining tray, and attempt to sleep.