March 8th, 2005


Entering The Death Star

Currently it's six am in New York. I'm sitting in the hotel room. Drinking mugicha, eating kasha varnishkes, spinach rice and smoking Nat Shermans between courses. Dawn has yet to rise across the Hudson. Life is fairly good and the only frustration to New York is the lack of replacement 12" PowerBook batteries. I'm sure there are greater frustration for the city's many inhabitants, but such is my own meagre annoyance. So far, I quite like this place, inasmuch as London has provided one with a series of readily transferable skills for everyday survival. Hmm, the sky is turning a lighter blue. Here are a few of my handwritten travel notes across the way:

Heathrow: Port Side, 5th March
Someone, somewhere, must choose the precise level of rigidity that either insinuates or enables threat and malice. Plastic cutlery too soft to eat with. Well, you can maybe spread warmed butter, but not fridge fresh.

Bacon? Forget it. Meat. Fleisch. If you can cut bacon, you can cut a man in half. So we eat our overpriced breakfasts in mute comedy, miming the saw and pierce of breakfast motions. It don't cut it. Big White Plate - ubiquitous 2000 catering touch - use your hands, greasy mitts. You may as well eat at Garfunkels and not chez Gerard. Heathrow needs a greasy spoon... Queue to ticketing area - Footballers' Wives prospecting, recreated simulation of Sex in the City moments, giving blow jobs to queers in former meat-packing districts. May as well be a drag queen, dearie-o. John Rechy non-plussed. Reckon they've found the real thing. Jimmy Choos from Brick Lane sweatshops. We're all hunting something. None of it's real.

WH Smith. Airport exclusives. The facts behind Angels & Demons. [Wilson's] Illuminati for the noughties. Teenage girls buying the same magazine - it looks the same confection of pink and free gifts - three times over. "Mmm, Paris Hilton."

Leaving the flat this morning, the air is crisp and yet to be breathed. Faint scent of marine life. It is good.

Questioning the Dark Star: They say, put $20 in an envelope, they'll give you an answer, but they make no promises. Here's some news from the Death Star people who wish all of you folks a real happy Mother's Day:

Only one lighter allowed!

New 72 hour rule. Out you go. No questions, no rights of redress. Sikh man suggests I keep the pricier looking one, but hands the other back to me on the sly when the search is finished. His eyes say sorry. Take off your boots. Taps them like it's Midnight Express [after I've spent five minutes peeling them off just before the plane. It's hard without the bootjack and I get cramp]

I am (We are) bringing disease agents

Do you have a communicable disease? Yes, Rodney Bingenheimer's sad eyes. Spilling his mum's ashes in the ocean, no, the Thames. "What's that bloke doing?" Later the same kid, when prompted?, can be heard thanking the boat's pilot. "Thanks Dave!" Too scripted. Too English. Not enough swearing. Rodney missed nothing over the years at the English Disco. [I was watching this film]