Oh... hooly-dooly! Ole Dan's gotten it into himself that maybe my slow turning's nothing more than rotgut poisons to make him lethargic and shit; while he's making miffings on our mother's couch, I can't help but think that maybe tonight I'm gonna get a visit from my old pal Tahoma the capybara and that he's gonna narrate some absurdly filmable sequence that I'll surely forget whence my alpha dream state subsides... sense? Shit baby, sense is for the birds and the withdrawal symptoms of your love are beginning to take a hold on me. Sweats, mitochondrial disease, Micronesia, Bikini Atoll radiation... you call it: I've got it. That plane will do its job. I'm gonna keep it here within the lines of excess. So nice to see Elliott and his bullshit legality via publishing sans science... and his wonderful and extremely Canadian-phobic woman Janine (sp? baby) out at the PS14 R-something Wednesday night party. Ole Chazzie got himself a Magna Cum Laude thingamabob yesterday and I'll be damned if that boy doesn't rise to overshadow everything that precedes him. Delicious veal entrecote to celebrate and the joint gathering of good friends to pist the night away. Just got off a solid phoner with a woman who matters and am relieved to inform you, gentle reader, that on May 25th, 2006 -- 5:49 am: humanity is not lost. Lose time, lose energy, overexert yourselves... it don't fucking matter. Tonight we bled truth from the Magic City's Downtown (why was Studio A closed?) to the SoHo lounge (why did the fucking floods come on at 3:00 am again?) to The District (why were you closed?) to the unfindable Razor's Edge Underground Punk-a-majig Four Thousand Club (Fungus Twat, why you sleepy lie?) to the South Beach "Room" that middle-aged, bald dude insisted was his place in the hotel up the street to the Purdy Lounge -- where the barkeep set the record straight on their five am closeout... did I mention all our new friends inside the Biscayne Walgreen's? Pappy heated Jesse's cheeseburger and the two nice African-American ladies at the counter bemused us with tales of wanton excess and 24 oz. ketchup bottles. Ah, to modern eternity! But right now I feel the capy creeping up and since I don't want to cooly sweat anymore than I will have to in the next couple of weeks, I leave you with the only thing that has always been my right to leave people with: my love and a promise to use the spellcheck function.
Where Jesus erred... Chinaski won.
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