tax. Shall I dispose of your old … ah … suit?”
“If you would, man, please. On second thought, man, you’d better not, you’d better put it in an airtight bag, man, and let me take it away for burial.” I cannot let this suit fall into hostile hands, man. It is precious, like my valuable toenails which must be sacrificially burned, man after cutting. Black magic, man, is everywhere. Terrible things might happen to me if this suit fell into the wrong hands. Puerto Rican witch doctors, man, performing weird rites, man, with chickens and my old suit. I can’t have it, man, I already have stabbing pains in my beak, man, just thinking of it.
“Here you are, sir, and thank you for shopping Barney’s.”
“Right, man, stay cool.” And out I go, man into the bright sunlight, man, which is too bright, man, I must put on my special shades, man, completely black except for fifty pin holes in each lens. Makes you feel like you are walking around in a wire cage, man, with the optical field split up into a pin-hole pattern, so you can hardly see where you’re walking, so therefore, man, I’d better take a cab.
“TAXI!”
Cab pull directly over to curbstone screech. Bearded cabby wearing shades.
“Wait’ll I get my umbrella in, man, can you shove it up there in the front seat, thanks man. Central Park, man, anywhere at all.”
Zoooom cab moving out, weaving through traffic stop-lights clang-bang through the gears. Cab-man karate. Feint little tap with the bumper going uptown into the sunlight. Driver looking over his shoulder, cutting smoothly nearly killing man with an armload of packages, knifing along, turning the wheel, moving ahead.
“All you need in this cab, man, is a fan, man, to cool yourself.”
“I’m cool, man.”
“Right, man, and you can be even cooler with this handy-dandy fan, man, nothing like it for soothing vibes.” There is of course one other cooling procedure suitable to this moment and that is to remove from my vest-pocket this large gold-plated ball-point pen, a souvenir of the Empire State Building. The pen, man, is hollow inside, and by opening it and shaking it I dispense into my hand one wrinkled neatly-folded-at-each-end health-food smoke, man, of salty seaweed harvested by Portuguese fisherwomen and dried on stones.
Light up, man, draw deep, give smoking stone seaweed to cabby.
“Thanks, man.”
Fearless cabby, man, go anywhere, smoke anything.
Horse Badorties and spaced-out cabby smoking seaweed, smiles of sunlight wreathing the air. Riding along in the flashing light.
Cabby suddenly stoned in middle of Lexington Avenue so what man go anywhere any conditions. Fly automatic pilot, know city inside-out, stoned, drunk, flaked-out, you-name-it I’ll get you there. Perfect coordination, weaving the traffic, floating the traffic, everybody fuck-all dreaming.
Come up to hotels fountains bubbling in sunlight, turning onto Central Park South there are the trees, man, we are at the park.
“Right here is good, man.”
Zoom over to curbstone.
Pay cabby, give him as tip the rest of the seaweed, man, for use in the rush hour. Give him a rush to beat all other rushes, man.
“Right, man, thanks.”
“Hey, man, do me a favor and hang this public announcement in the back of your cab, man. Look, I’ll stick it right here. Tell the world about the Love Concert, man, two-three days from now.”
And I am stepping out of the cab with umbrella and satchel, man, high uptown. Cab driver take off zzoooooooommmm.
Oh no, man, I have left my precious valuable used rotten old suit in that taxicab, man. I must give chase, man, at once, and retrieve it. On second thought, man, fuck it. That’s how it goes, man, life brings mistakes with it too and my suit is now on the way into the hands of the witch doctors. By tonight I’ll have terminal pains in my elbow and a rash on my balls, man, with weird dreams about turning into a chicken, man. Chicken-man Badorties, man, it’s too horrible to
“If you would, man, please. On second thought, man, you’d better not, you’d better put it in an airtight bag, man, and let me take it away for burial.” I cannot let this suit fall into hostile hands, man. It is precious, like my valuable toenails which must be sacrificially burned, man after cutting. Black magic, man, is everywhere. Terrible things might happen to me if this suit fell into the wrong hands. Puerto Rican witch doctors, man, performing weird rites, man, with chickens and my old suit. I can’t have it, man, I already have stabbing pains in my beak, man, just thinking of it.
“Here you are, sir, and thank you for shopping Barney’s.”
“Right, man, stay cool.” And out I go, man into the bright sunlight, man, which is too bright, man, I must put on my special shades, man, completely black except for fifty pin holes in each lens. Makes you feel like you are walking around in a wire cage, man, with the optical field split up into a pin-hole pattern, so you can hardly see where you’re walking, so therefore, man, I’d better take a cab.
“TAXI!”
Cab pull directly over to curbstone screech. Bearded cabby wearing shades.
“Wait’ll I get my umbrella in, man, can you shove it up there in the front seat, thanks man. Central Park, man, anywhere at all.”
Zoooom cab moving out, weaving through traffic stop-lights clang-bang through the gears. Cab-man karate. Feint little tap with the bumper going uptown into the sunlight. Driver looking over his shoulder, cutting smoothly nearly killing man with an armload of packages, knifing along, turning the wheel, moving ahead.
“All you need in this cab, man, is a fan, man, to cool yourself.”
“I’m cool, man.”
“Right, man, and you can be even cooler with this handy-dandy fan, man, nothing like it for soothing vibes.” There is of course one other cooling procedure suitable to this moment and that is to remove from my vest-pocket this large gold-plated ball-point pen, a souvenir of the Empire State Building. The pen, man, is hollow inside, and by opening it and shaking it I dispense into my hand one wrinkled neatly-folded-at-each-end health-food smoke, man, of salty seaweed harvested by Portuguese fisherwomen and dried on stones.
Light up, man, draw deep, give smoking stone seaweed to cabby.
“Thanks, man.”
Fearless cabby, man, go anywhere, smoke anything.
Horse Badorties and spaced-out cabby smoking seaweed, smiles of sunlight wreathing the air. Riding along in the flashing light.
Cabby suddenly stoned in middle of Lexington Avenue so what man go anywhere any conditions. Fly automatic pilot, know city inside-out, stoned, drunk, flaked-out, you-name-it I’ll get you there. Perfect coordination, weaving the traffic, floating the traffic, everybody fuck-all dreaming.
Come up to hotels fountains bubbling in sunlight, turning onto Central Park South there are the trees, man, we are at the park.
“Right here is good, man.”
Zoom over to curbstone.
Pay cabby, give him as tip the rest of the seaweed, man, for use in the rush hour. Give him a rush to beat all other rushes, man.
“Right, man, thanks.”
“Hey, man, do me a favor and hang this public announcement in the back of your cab, man. Look, I’ll stick it right here. Tell the world about the Love Concert, man, two-three days from now.”
And I am stepping out of the cab with umbrella and satchel, man, high uptown. Cab driver take off zzoooooooommmm.
Oh no, man, I have left my precious valuable used rotten old suit in that taxicab, man. I must give chase, man, at once, and retrieve it. On second thought, man, fuck it. That’s how it goes, man, life brings mistakes with it too and my suit is now on the way into the hands of the witch doctors. By tonight I’ll have terminal pains in my elbow and a rash on my balls, man, with weird dreams about turning into a chicken, man. Chicken-man Badorties, man, it’s too horrible to
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