I’m not as anxious to get back to L.A. as I was at first. That desire is being supplanted—during my leisurely strolls across the Brooklyn Bridge— by a new desire, perhaps a whole new Hydraheaded cluster of desires sprouting forth with Hope and Hype.
AND I NEED N.Y. I suck it down like a goddamn Elixir!
And I need words—maybe 650 of them—so I can feed what that raving Lunatic From Lull-ville called the Mojo Wire. My editor is hungry for copy.
WORDS WORDS WORDS! Images, shining and loud and a bit too bright for the room, sounds going off in your head like a backfire, pictures slapping your brain and trying to get inside and live there, the boarder who never wants to go home.
New York is a great place to live through a lot of freakin’ images. And that’s why I’m here now. After all, it’s been a great place for me to do my Gypsy Rose Lee 100th birthday lectures. It’s been an awesome success, people, AWESOME!
I want to finish the lecture series, peddle the rest of my X-rated poetry chapbooks, and go out on tour as a burlesque comic. That’s right. And I can buy jokes. I don’t want to be a gag writer. I just want to be the yukk-puller.
I want Cameron Diaz and Drew Barrymore in my troupe. It will be a non-stop party, let me tell you—the Rat Pack slapped upside the head by Thelma & Louise.
I LOVE Diaz. After all, she and Drew are buds, and if Drew likes Cam, she is OK with me.
For one thing, I liked Bad Teacher. And Cam is a girl after my own heart—smart, sassy, strong and… well, you know, all the cool feminine ‘S” stuff. And we all recently learned that she likes to masturbate to sex videos in hotel rooms.
“I love porn!” she says, per movies.ndtv.com.”
You know what I love about hotels? How discreet they are.” Cam-Cam, wanna play?
Yeah, like that doomed one, James (Douglas)
Morrison, before he died in a tub in Paris, Cameron and I want to get our kicks before the whole shithouse goes down in flames. And it may be crashing fast. The Greeks and Irish and Italians are in a financial freefall. All legitimacy of most of our regimes, in the Middle East and the West, has eroded.
I was in New York with a cute blonde in late ’87, hanging in Park Slope. It was a couple of months after the October crash. Now I wonder if I’m here in time for another crash, if those nimrods in D.C. can’t cut a budget deal.
Well, it hasn’t crashed yet, and I’ve got great digs at a little hotel in Gramercy. The 5-day forecast at the NY Post site says nice weather into the weekend—mostly sunny and pleasant. And best of all, I’ve got a burlesque tour to mount, so to speak.
So Cam, carpe diem, babe—Call me. Maybe we can get together with Drew and the other kids and put together a show. You’re in the city a lot anyway, hanging with A-Rod. Slip away for a couple of innings. Meet me in Manhattan. I know a great little corner diner on Third Avenue downtown, Cam.
I’ll buy you a cup of joe and we’ll talk about porn, about the burlesque tour. We’ll talk your costumes. We’ll talk about your music cues. After that, we can get a cocktail at the Holiday.
FINALLY, Dear Readers, I just hit send, winging this column on its way to my editor. Time to go out to Coney, enjoy the sun, maybe get a drink at the Cha-Cha Lounge.
And Cameron, I almost forgot—I’ve got a book of poetry I KNOW you’re going to love, Babe.
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 Port-au-Prince, Haiti. He is a former consultant to felon and presidential candidate Lyndon Larouche. Send your comments to email@example.com.