So I dash down to Sam the Record Man before it becomes a bona fide cockroach museum to snatch up some rare cd's by Radiohead, Bjork and the Tea Party, just before they lock the doors for good. Then I wolf a cheeseburger at LICK'S. Gotta say, the name of that place has always excited me, and boy oh boy do they ever make my cheeseburger a beautiful thing that night. Some new short order kooks in the kitchen, I think? Anyway, side of onion rings rounds out my manly meal quite nicely. Yum!
Dodging bullets over Yonge Street, I then spend some serious mad cash on ho's and Ho-Hos -- that creme filling sure is better than the sub-par gunk they put in Twinkies, that's for sure. By the time I place a down payment on the condo in the fashion district with my soon to be ex, its no longer the fashion district (which went west to parkdale - who could've seen that coming?) and so I have to live with many a flake artist type who doesn't know the first thing about freebase (like they do in Darkdale or at York). Boring!
Next, after a few toots on this crazy ass pipe I happen to find in the washroom at the bus station, I invent a couple of tv languages to sell to Gene Roddenberry (shhhh! he owes me big time for previous services rendered!) just so i can pony up some cash in a sleezy attempt to seduce my ex's daughter, Sharon -- and she comes at a price, everyone comes at a price -- and sometimes, I gotta say, I'm not sure if its worth it -- though we both seem to enjoy our version of hide and seek much more than when we played the same game with her two moms (Natalie used to be a man, but that was before the operation, which I should make very clear I did not agree with (I mean she was fully loaded top and bottom) but nonetheless paid for in full with my Griffin stash.) -- Fooey! Now I'm nearly fucking broke again, and the council's not accepting applications for another month! Fiddlesticks!
So now the little one is asleep and I don't know what to do with myself... too much pipe, money's almost all run out. What I really most need to do is try and relax so I can churn out another award winning collection of perverse. Darren and Chris called earlier (seems charmer Phlip misplaced his grandpa's dentures, and he was wondering if he left them here that night?) and they're both asking me -- pleading practically -- to drive out to the airport to rendezvous with Ken (whose flight just landed) for some drinkys before the big reading tomorrow at the newly opened po-mo Eaton's Centre. I'm nervous as hell about it because Ken is such a phenomenal writer (man those rythms he lays down r da DOPE!) and try as I might, I don't think I'll ever be able to outdo the sort of thing he does with those old issues of the New Yorker and the National Enquirer he's constantly sourcing from. (The piece he did on Fatty Arbuckle's previously unknown collection of coke bottles was really something, I thought at the time I first ran across it). Now if I could just close my eyes and fall asleep I would, but the freebirdbasing and the brand new movement to Chris' robotic beat-boxing soap opera running through my head is really keeping me up, like a rave he wished he could throw. Guess I will go to the airport after all. Why Knot? Ken will just have to spot me a drink. He owes me too from that same Roddenberry thing so many weeks ago now. But, as you know, I never kiss and tell -- unless drano is involved...