Episode 3 of Going Away Party, New York, and Last Couple Weeks. This one starts from Mexican’s from Florida trying to Blow me in Trump Hotel.

10 Aug

 

FROM THE LAST EPISODE:

 

 

As I go down the front steps of the hotel, I realise: “I’ve been hanging out with Mexican Immigrants (FROM MIAMI) in the TRUMP HOTEL.”

I start yelling bafoonery.  The wadded up $1 was still at the base of the steps.  I turn and throw it at the doorman.  I laugh.  Straight guy laughs.

Now, the cops are coming.  On fucking horseback.  I haven’t seen cops on horses since they didn’t do shit in Portland, OR.  Butterstuff echoes in my head.

Smoke joint while running with brown man.  Straight but brown and I’m wanted by Trump’s law.

Straight guy and I finish the joint, and now he has no need for me.

“He’s on his own up there.  I gotta go back.”

I now question the straightness of this straight guy.

Ka clunk, ka clunk, ka clunk, you know how horseshoes on pavement sound.

I run and run and run.

Where did I run to?  Fucking right back to that god damn Timberlake bbq place where the Puerto Rican host (girl) likes me.

“Table for 3?  Hahaha.”

Fuck this.

 

To be continued…..

*LSD and the Subway

*Bar owner beating a handicapped pedestrian with his own cane

*Going away show and late night video

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

CONTINUED NOW:

 

After I returned to the BBQ joint, I promptly exited.  I don’t take shit from civilians.  I headed home, back way uptown, way, way uptown. I live at w176th and Broadway. Washington Heights.  It’s basically, the Dominican Republic.  My Mexican Espanol does nothing when hearing and reading the different slang, culture, and people.  I returned to the apartment, which I sublet, with a dignified answer to my problems.  Cocaine is in my sock drawer.

It’s 3 am, I was almost raped by nothing more than telemarketers, but thoroughly raped by the cab driver (figuratively).   Made it up my 5-story walk up.  Straight to the blow. Snorted a few.  The few the George W. would wink at.

Beer.  Ahhh sweet……Miller?  Fuck me.  But it works.  I just remembered.  I had stowed 3 hits of blotter acid in an Andy Andrist CD.  Not in the actual CD, but within the paper label under the center swivel.  Realising now, if anyone knew who Andy was that would be the first thing to search while at airport security.  But, thankfully, Andy knows how to keep himself in the backseat.  (Hopefully, he does more.)

After talking to myself in a drunken-coke-bend-mirror, “Fuck it,” rang loud and clear.  I broke the clear CD case and found my paper.  I tore that in to thirds.  I ate 2/3s immediately like a moron.  I knew how strong this shit was.  Half the reason I’d been trying to give it away before I hit the city.  I didn’t feel, even while thoroughly experienced with LSD and other Psychedelics, that NYC was ready or that I was ready quite yet for the mass chaos.

Two hours later….

I’m on the roof of my complex.  I contemplated all fascets of life, and especially the fucked “American Life.”

Six A.M……

Let’s take the subway.

Let’s go to East Midtown.  Why not?  Nothing happening here.  I know a good spot.  It has good beers and good staff.

Down the rabbit hole at w175th.  The A-Train is an express.  Thank God for that.  But that just means I have longer time with the same people without stops.  I know, I’m acting weird but gratefully, on that car, I’m not nearly the only one.

I recall yelling, “Douglas Fir Trees.”  I was seated and pretending to read my book.  I found after a few stops that I was reading a book upside down.

Fuck!! They know.

Everyone was staring.  Not because I was on drugs.  I was giving a lecture of simple statements.  Every few minutes, apparently, I would yell another subject.

“Jews on an elevator!”

“Blue Crabs speak Danish!”

People looked at me after every sequence of sayings and I would stare back at one particular person with a creepy, no-teeth, smile.

I felt like I would be stuck in the subway forever.  Saying nonsense to people who just wanted to get to there destination at 8 A.M. on a Sunday Morning.  (Realized later most were probably going to Church, and up this high where Puerto Ricans and Dominicans live, perhaps, they thought I was a demon.)

I ran out of the train at the 14th Street get off.  I could feel the stank in the air.  When I wasn’t yelling crazy shit on the train, I was writing in my notebook about how human kind is a parasitic bunch of horseshit.  I started walking by the slugs, up the stairs of stains and lost life.

Sunlight.  Sunlight at 14th.  Fuck me.  I spread my arms like anyone else imbibed with acid finally discoverying the world.  I laugh.  Hysterically, laugh.  People continue to look at me.  Stare at me.  I look back.  Those who continue, I groan, “You don’t even know you are alive.”

Sidewalk is clear.

Didn’t know it was that easy.

Would have done that long ago, if I understood its all it takes.

…………………………………………..

I continue walking from the Westside to the Eastside.  On 14th.  Anyone who knows New York, blocks can be massive.

I’m now beginning to peak.

I make it to 3rd Ave and 14th.  Heart of chaos.  Aside from certain terminals of tourism like World Trade 1 and Times Square.  I look like a beggar without a cup, cause, or even know how.  I’m sweating ether from the blow the night before.  I’m dry like the Sahara.

Need drink.

Need drink to calm the nerves.

Fucking people.  When will they stop.

Never.  I’m 6’6″ and people who are much smaller are bumping me.  I think my wallet is being fucked with.  Nope.  Acid.  But, at the time, I was sure of it.

I’m walking up 3rd Ave with my wallet above my head.  I’m holding it high as if each one of these midgets (acid mind) is trying to jump up and get it.

They’re staring again.

Fuck ’em.  Fuck you.  Fuck your family.  Get out of my way.  I’m in route to happiness.

I make it to my destination.  Fitzgerald’s.  I sigh a scream of relief.  “I’m THERE.”

……………………….

I don’t know why Fitzgerald’s but I remember being comfortable there before.  I’m comfortable again now.  “Beer please.”

Ahh, I remember why.  Jimmy the English bartender didn’t make my show in March and now I must present him with free tickets.

“Jimmy doesn’t work here anymore.  He’s moved on.”

I know what that means.  He was fired.  Damn it, Jimmy.  Five beers later, and probably now 20 total calculating from the night before, I meet some new friends.

Chelsea boys.  We talk.  They are crying about their relationship.  Literally, crying.  That’s fine.  Don’t care.  I pay my tab.

I begin to run.  FUCKING RUN.  Cigarette lit.  Running.

I bash a tourist.  Nearly, knock her to the ground: “You know why New Yorker’s are considered assholes?  Just that reason!”

No time for laughter, although I chuckled.  She was face first in her phone and not paying attention.  After she yelled that, the “New Yorkers” started chastising her.  I could hear her say, “I didn’t mean anything.”  They surrounded her like a whore in Bangkok whose taking money and not giving it up.

I make it to Harlem.  Running.  This is where it really gets fun.

To be continued….

 

I will solve these other stories soon.  They all seem to intertwine.  This is why my life is a cartoon:

*Bar owner beating a handicapped pedestrian with his own cane

*Going away show and late night video

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