(no subject)
a row of pennies on the sidewalk this morning; each one face-down. i feel faint.
surely it's because i've been high on diesel and gasoline, cycle the drum machine--or is that a pratt & whitney turbine? suddenly i'm back in the windy city, sharing a box wine spigot with friends i didn't have an hour before, painting hyde park with chillable red. it's a whirlwind tour of second floor walkups, cramped radio studios, and jesse jackson's favourite coffee shop, but only on the last night am i truly in my element: gargling ominously-named dollar beers, bracing myself against the incredible sonic barrage of acid mothers temple, and surrounded by my two best friends in the world, not to mention perhaps the most attractive student at the university of chicago. in a blink i'm sitting next to the latter on the el, and we discuss the tokyo megalopolis and the general demise of aesthetics, and i tell her i want to move to a cave on hokkaido and never shave again. changing trains somewhere, a homeless man bangs out gary glitter marvelously on two paint buckets and a cymbal nearly torn to shreds. i give him a dollar because he makes me feel like a winner, and, in that early morning alcoholic haze, i'm temporarily convinced that i might be able to matriculate one of these days. though not the next, because i'm back in a pressurised cabin, sitting next to the jive-talking midget from the universoul circus, who obviously has a few drinks in him already, and proceeds to order five more over the course of the flight. as we touch down, he literally shouts at me for a favour--i feel privileged to help such a brotha out, and hand him his bag from the overhead before exiting.
there's been much more life since then, but my head is still spinning wildly. as mikee streets proclaims, geezers need excitement. however, they also must remember to breathe once in a while...
surely it's because i've been high on diesel and gasoline, cycle the drum machine--or is that a pratt & whitney turbine? suddenly i'm back in the windy city, sharing a box wine spigot with friends i didn't have an hour before, painting hyde park with chillable red. it's a whirlwind tour of second floor walkups, cramped radio studios, and jesse jackson's favourite coffee shop, but only on the last night am i truly in my element: gargling ominously-named dollar beers, bracing myself against the incredible sonic barrage of acid mothers temple, and surrounded by my two best friends in the world, not to mention perhaps the most attractive student at the university of chicago. in a blink i'm sitting next to the latter on the el, and we discuss the tokyo megalopolis and the general demise of aesthetics, and i tell her i want to move to a cave on hokkaido and never shave again. changing trains somewhere, a homeless man bangs out gary glitter marvelously on two paint buckets and a cymbal nearly torn to shreds. i give him a dollar because he makes me feel like a winner, and, in that early morning alcoholic haze, i'm temporarily convinced that i might be able to matriculate one of these days. though not the next, because i'm back in a pressurised cabin, sitting next to the jive-talking midget from the universoul circus, who obviously has a few drinks in him already, and proceeds to order five more over the course of the flight. as we touch down, he literally shouts at me for a favour--i feel privileged to help such a brotha out, and hand him his bag from the overhead before exiting.
there's been much more life since then, but my head is still spinning wildly. as mikee streets proclaims, geezers need excitement. however, they also must remember to breathe once in a while...