Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Monday June 18, 2001
Long-distance cross-boarder train, outta da cesspool an’ inna da fire. Land of the obese fading behind.
To be clear: I ache. Fire-belly, lead-lids, Ferrari eyes, basket-balls. Beer, grease, women, late nights, early morning; America. Too much money for its own good. Yesterday was New York City in the hurricane rain. Delis and Greenwich Village Record Shops with rare Bob Dylans and unknown Tracy Chapmans. Took in a Shea Stadium subway series with $6 beer, $4 soda (or water), $7 sandwich – all prices American dollars.
This game goes on forever. Fat Mets fan down front with a rally cap on and cell phone inning-by-inning updates. Six dollar beer going down like water. All-black grounds crew cleans up after multi-millionaire crotch scratchers. I love this game! Must be the money – these big-bottomed millionaires get special Democrat health care, no waiting times.
My friend the Polar Bear recently had a series of ultrasound MRI CAT scans through his lower hernia, only to discover himself half-naked in a room full of fat men in blue mini-skirts, being told to “sit ‘n’ spread!”
“I ain’t a fuckin’ cattle, dude!” he shrieked. “You can’t herd me in like the rest of them. My balls don’t make public appearances unless there’s a hole in my crotch! Mooooo! Mooooo!!” A deep belly-moo, ocean rolling through grey concrete. A quick electric shock to the fanny calmed him down, and only cost him an extra gold card. No wonder Canada wants to privatize. Thank God the Bear ain’t pregnant – he’d have to sell the house to pay for delivery!
Abortion is unlikely with this President George Walker, a Bush (P-GWaB). P-GWaB is a pro-lifer, which in his case means he believes in genetically engineering retarded babies to go on killing sprees at Democratic conventions and executing them later on cable TV.
What I like about America is friendly, outgoing people. My buddy Georgia Brown (GB), who brought me to Shea, fits right into that scene. What I like about GB is he makes mundane fun. Like reading the want ads dryly: “’NYPD Blow. Offering oral servicing to men in blue and other uniformed, suited or hard working str8 type men, any race, 21-65.’
“He’s not picky.
“Check this one: ‘Seeking Doctor, 40+ to examine me at your private office (well endowed a must!) Need all holes checked during examination.’
“Meticulous by nature I guess.”
It’s the homophobia that gets me: “Every fuckin’ second guy in fuckin’ New York is a fuckin’ fag!”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, I don’t know, but it seems that way. Not that I have anything against it. I just get sick of it. I love the multiculturalism though, everybody’s different!”
I offer to buy him a coffee at Starbucks because I need the hit and he tells me, "Naw, FUCK the establishment man! Let’s go to some independent place.” Another small-town contradiction living in the big city.
Big city blues, I gotta come down from all this. I’m checking into rehab: Minister Swears’ Detox Centre. Right in the middle of Canada’s biggest people trap. Minister Swears is a frizzy-haired little environmentalist and certified United Church Minister. “Lan’ sakes alive!” she’ll say to me. “I thought I’d gotten rid of your blaspheme-izing ass for the summer! Heavens to Betsy!” This right before kitchen-rage delicacy preparation and salon-like pampering.
I hope she’s open because I gotta purge mad pixie hormones, social alcoholism, and cultural bloody consumption. Not to mention train-food. Chicken and cheese on a bun. Toppings in a separate container. On a cardboard tray. Disposable cup for tea with wooden stir stick wrapped in paper. Suck ‘n’ chuck in the land of the free enterprise. $7.25 for fat enhanced Mexican war sewage and pesticide-laced grown for six bucks a day immunity-enhancing (since what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger) 3-month old neutered clipped crammed in a cage hung upside-down throat slit death scream E. Coli mad-cow risk factory farmed chicken sandwich.
To be clear: I ache. Fire-belly, lead-lids, Ferrari eyes, basket-balls. Beer, grease, women, late nights, early morning; America. Too much money for its own good. Yesterday was New York City in the hurricane rain. Delis and Greenwich Village Record Shops with rare Bob Dylans and unknown Tracy Chapmans. Took in a Shea Stadium subway series with $6 beer, $4 soda (or water), $7 sandwich – all prices American dollars.
This game goes on forever. Fat Mets fan down front with a rally cap on and cell phone inning-by-inning updates. Six dollar beer going down like water. All-black grounds crew cleans up after multi-millionaire crotch scratchers. I love this game! Must be the money – these big-bottomed millionaires get special Democrat health care, no waiting times.
My friend the Polar Bear recently had a series of ultrasound MRI CAT scans through his lower hernia, only to discover himself half-naked in a room full of fat men in blue mini-skirts, being told to “sit ‘n’ spread!”
“I ain’t a fuckin’ cattle, dude!” he shrieked. “You can’t herd me in like the rest of them. My balls don’t make public appearances unless there’s a hole in my crotch! Mooooo! Mooooo!!” A deep belly-moo, ocean rolling through grey concrete. A quick electric shock to the fanny calmed him down, and only cost him an extra gold card. No wonder Canada wants to privatize. Thank God the Bear ain’t pregnant – he’d have to sell the house to pay for delivery!
Abortion is unlikely with this President George Walker, a Bush (P-GWaB). P-GWaB is a pro-lifer, which in his case means he believes in genetically engineering retarded babies to go on killing sprees at Democratic conventions and executing them later on cable TV.
What I like about America is friendly, outgoing people. My buddy Georgia Brown (GB), who brought me to Shea, fits right into that scene. What I like about GB is he makes mundane fun. Like reading the want ads dryly: “’NYPD Blow. Offering oral servicing to men in blue and other uniformed, suited or hard working str8 type men, any race, 21-65.’
“He’s not picky.
“Check this one: ‘Seeking Doctor, 40+ to examine me at your private office (well endowed a must!) Need all holes checked during examination.’
“Meticulous by nature I guess.”
It’s the homophobia that gets me: “Every fuckin’ second guy in fuckin’ New York is a fuckin’ fag!”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, I don’t know, but it seems that way. Not that I have anything against it. I just get sick of it. I love the multiculturalism though, everybody’s different!”
I offer to buy him a coffee at Starbucks because I need the hit and he tells me, "Naw, FUCK the establishment man! Let’s go to some independent place.” Another small-town contradiction living in the big city.
Big city blues, I gotta come down from all this. I’m checking into rehab: Minister Swears’ Detox Centre. Right in the middle of Canada’s biggest people trap. Minister Swears is a frizzy-haired little environmentalist and certified United Church Minister. “Lan’ sakes alive!” she’ll say to me. “I thought I’d gotten rid of your blaspheme-izing ass for the summer! Heavens to Betsy!” This right before kitchen-rage delicacy preparation and salon-like pampering.
I hope she’s open because I gotta purge mad pixie hormones, social alcoholism, and cultural bloody consumption. Not to mention train-food. Chicken and cheese on a bun. Toppings in a separate container. On a cardboard tray. Disposable cup for tea with wooden stir stick wrapped in paper. Suck ‘n’ chuck in the land of the free enterprise. $7.25 for fat enhanced Mexican war sewage and pesticide-laced grown for six bucks a day immunity-enhancing (since what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger) 3-month old neutered clipped crammed in a cage hung upside-down throat slit death scream E. Coli mad-cow risk factory farmed chicken sandwich.
Labels: 2001, America, non-fiction, Travel
