Saturday night, a long night at work...Batshit showed up and I gave him my paints and a Canvas, I was tired of the photocopied reproductions of his "Masterpieces".
I wanted something original. Meanwhile he's ranting to me about his paintings will fetch $150 Million, Mick Jagger's got one above his bed, a 6'X4' one of Sophia Loren, after his death it will go to MOMA, The Tate, The Louvre, "I mean, if that idiot can throw house paint against a canvas and get $100 Million...", he's talking about Jackson Pollock of course...
And after the night - a long night, off to town to get sketchy. A lot sketchy. Magical herbs, and some brown sugar from the Alchemist, and I'm off...
...to visit G***, back in town, gatekeeping at the white rappers, can't get in, not a big deal. Not my scene. From here onward, past the Royal, crowds outside smoking, on to Bloom, a 5 or 7 piece ensemble, the writer for James Brown, Pee Wee Ellis, $45.00 cover reduced because I am late in showing up...
Not the music I'm looking for but I;ll take it. The night passes as always in Foon, entertaining, amusing, and I'm considerably improved from my mood at work earlier, but the night ends with me in a coffee house on Baker, 2:30 AM, Skeletor DJ'ing, good tunes, a slow black coffee while I try to recombobulate, I'm beside a Jedi, one of the knights of the Old Republic, he's parked his lightsaber - one of the double bladed jobs, red, in the Umbrella Stand, he picks it up every few minutes, goes into the street to turn it on and twirl it, do "his moves", don't know if he's a busker or not, he's got no cap, immaculately groomed with man-bun, trimmed beard, long Jedi robes and high boots...
The next morning - late, as might be expected, lunch on a patio on Baker. Air Drummer, or Little Drummer Boy, if you will, is out, shirt off, on the Corner of Baker & Ward in front of the Coffee Shop, earbuds in, Air-Drumming up a storm, he's going bananas, he's taken the "Banging the Drum" to a whole new level, there are, of course, no real drums, merely the imagined beat coming through his earbuds, an old lady passing: "....", he can't hear her, the music in his head is too loud, he pops out his earbuds to explain..."Drumming...polyphonic harmonies..."...he explains..."As long as your having fun dear..." she replies, and smiles kindly before continuing...
I'm still pretty sketchy from the night before, gathering my thoughts, but as sketchy as I am my baseline is still a hundred miles above that of the average resident.
I get back to the dungeon, there's a painting wrapped and left in front of the door, old Batshit's delivered again, the left hand of the canvas random misspelled text and notes, phonetically sounded out (Balfour is "Ball-4", Ferry is "Fairy"), stray thoughts written down, the right hand of the canvas is a group of 5 Strippers, nudes, grotesque women with lean legs and pendulous breasts, every one of them holding a cup of coffee...