In need of a pub crawl

Hi, Kids. Time for a couple of trashy news or pop-culture items, calorie-rich bon-bons to take you away, at least briefly, from thoughts of the sweltering, dysfunctional mess that is your national government, from horrifying images of the Big Crash they promise. Obama and Boehner are fighting to grab the wheel of an out-of-control limo headed toward a guard rail on the Beltway.

But first, a set-up, shall we? I’m still in New York, for what promises to be longer than I thought when I came East after making that final delivery to Charlie Sheen.

I’m having an ice coffee and desperately searching for fun news items, for any Goddamned inspiration at all. Please!

I’m on deadline, but on some sad days, the words don’t wish to flow or just won’t come—if, as Isaac Davis said in Manhattan, “you’ll forgive the disgusting imagery.”

In fact, my head is about to explode from the pressure, you dig? It’s about to pop like St. Helens. I can feel the rumblings, like that Ash Wednesday quake in Seattle in ‘01.

I’ve always made deadlines, but this one might be the bridge too far—the one where my brain snaps shut from any further neural business, the one where I get deleted remotely from the Network, the dry, flat riverbed where the lights go out.

I feel like that poor, dumb bastard whose head explodes in front of an audience near the opening of Scanners, that old David Cronenberg picture.

Anyway, thank God I have a gig, that I’m in New York, that the weather feels a bit cooler— down to about 70 degrees tonight. That could be a fine time to roam around on foot downtown, see where the night takes me, maybe with a new friend.

And thank God or the Goddess or the Big It that I’ve got a date with my, uh, “agent” Aubrey. We’re meeting at the Alamo downtown.

Goddamn, y’all, what time is it? Shit! It’s a few minutes past noon. I’m supposed to meet Aubrey at 1 o’clock.

And I have to manufacture a few more decent sentences with some semblance of structure. Actually, hold the semblance, just give me some complete sentences, and I’ll take them to go, go, GO!

I won’t care if this damned column comes out of the oven looking like a Billy Burroughs/ Byron Gysin cut-up.

But how silly of me—it’s time, as promised, for a couple of trashy items, the journalistic equivalent of Jello shots. So chug-a-lug… A lawyer tossed his laptop bag away at JFK, making people worry it was a bomb (The NY Post, with their characteristic understatement, called it a ”bonehead decision.”) Speaking of my ‘ol pal Charlie Sheen, he made a deal for a new TV show, but he’s had to endure additional press scrutiny of his private life. Reports say that jealousy between his two girlfriends, the so-called “goddesses,” may have caused his blissful three-way to end. And Charlie thought he had it sussed: “The Young Guns actor would alternate which girlfriend he hopped into bed with each night, occasionally demanding both of them at the same time,” according to The Daily Mail.

(Hey, Charlie, I just remembered. Didn’t you tour some of those horrifically damaged areas down in Alabama after the tornadoes this spring and promise a benefit? Well, what about it?) In the 91-degree heat yesterday, some of the Smurfs (I’m not kidding) were treated for heat exhaustion on the red carpet at the Ziegfield Theatre.

Hey, screw it, at least one of the little blue guys got to pose for pictures with Katy Perry. Have you seen her new blonde hair? It’s SO precious. You go, Katy girl. Va-va-va-VOOM!

Oh, fuck it. I’ve got almost 700 words. Let’s call it good.

Oh, one more thing—thanks to N.Y. State for allowing gay marriage. I just saw an A.P. news feature about two women, a prosecutor and defense attorney, who got married at Borough Hall in Queens.

All rights for all people—NOW! Dig it? Hey, people, I’ve got to go deal with Aubrey.

I want to talk to him about helping me push the x-rated poetry chapbook. And maybe he’ll make that all-night downtown crawl with me. It’s time for those cold, hard beverages to flow… Peace out, y’all. See you next time.

Syd Amerika has a gift for gab and a vaudeville trunk full of memories. He is a graduate of the Ed Anger School of Journalism in Portau-Prince, Haiti. He is a former consultant to felon and presidential candidate Lyndon Larouche. Send your comments to editor@bhamweekly.com.