Fake Death is Real on TV

i was walking on 55th street last week behind Bad Boy World Headquarters, trying to suppress my boner at the thought of having my own skyscraper for BRANDTRUEBOY, there at the center of the world, surrounded by neon lit marquees and storefront delis with ancient wooden barrels in the window that used to be filled with smoked meat but are now just empty decorations, as these days, the meat is "smoked" in a vat of chemicals and shipped in from northern jersey in a refrigerated truck covered with third-rate graffiti, and tourists wrapped around the entrance to the david letterman show, shivering in their champion sweatshirts and looking like farm-grown idiots--but not as idiotic as they would look a few hours later, clapping and waving and smiling for the cameras like this was the most fun they'd ever had...which it prolly was...which is why they are idiots.

"there's more to life than this", i whispered to them as i passed.

the wind was blowing from all directions, like it was tryin hard to tell me something...

to leave? to run home...?

to embrace the future with eyes wide shut?

(but i had my iPod on and i couldn't hear the phrase through the halcyon haze)

trash and plastic bags flew up in little twisters from the gutter...making me sentimental and spacy and lookin for my camera like the stoner dude in american beauty.

and that's when i saw him:

right in front of me--farnsworth bentley. that umbrella toting, fag-acting, fashionista "assistant" of puffy's who's been a source of endless fascination for me, as he's one of those people who are famous for being famous, which, as some of you well know, is my ultimate goal in life.

damn, i said to myself, i guess his fifteen minutes is already up, cuz he was dressed in boring chinos and a boring jacket and a boring scarf--totally out of character with his usual haut couture get-ups. he didn't have his trademark umbrella or hat and he needed a haircut too.

as i watched a small piece of white paper shot out of his hands--a receipt or something.

he lunged after it in the air, missed it, and then ran forward trying to catch it, but it kept eluding his grasp.

the wind stopped, he fell to his knees but then a new gust sent the little square further down the sidewalk.

he prolly needs it for an expense report, i thought. i considered snapping a picture of him with the camera on my phone, but decided against it.

instead i turned up biggie smalls on my iPod and bopped on over to 7th ave, remixing a few lines of Goethe over the beat as i stuffed my hands deep inside the pockets of my no name parka:

I'm not like the others

who will try all their life to grasp the magic receipt

which they can see but never touch.

sin twitties

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