Sourced from my umpteen photo files & albums throughout the years...
I began vanishing; Food was beckoning. We gobbled pizza slices, then hit the Village by cab.
Like Montreal, we found Creole—this time a restaurant instead of a pharmacist. We moulded into our chairs. We drank in a moment of calm.
Winding down our first night: We strolled deeper into The Village—came to a clearing—passed by a fighter by his trade—and pulled up two stools at a bar called The Boxer. At 2 AM, we decided to pull up stakes and make our way home; it was either that or dying.
UP-TO-THE-MINUTE-SLEEP TOTAL = 6 Hours
Tomorrow, I’ll find my IDENTITY. I promise.
When we passed the site of World Trade Center my stomach dropped. My eyes watered. I wanted the innocence lost forever, to return.
I came to a loss for words.
I collected several pieces of my lost soul at the WTC.
I think humanity lost some of its core at this tragically historic location.
The stands resembled those of a Coliseum. Electrodes dangled from vital parts of contestants’ bodies. The players selected their characters on a large video screen for all to see. The battle commenced. Cheers erupted with each zap. The victims winced in agony. Another zap, a squirm, another zap, and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Veins began bulging. The losers would keel over defeated; yet, vascular.
The amperage increased with each round.
Another zap—more burning flesh; I dreamt of past loves.
We said our goodbyes to our oddly pleasant new friends. Debauchery was calling.
My new cabbie, quickly deduced: I needed more night because I was glowing and hovering in the back of his cab.
He drew my attention to men dressed in polyester leisure suits hanging on street corners. He told me in NYC, Mayor Giuliani, did such a stellar job cleaning up the city—get this—the hookers, circle in cars.
After fifteen minutes of my NYC indoctrination, my cabbie dropped me at an After Hours Club.
I quickly blended into the VIP line. The doorman gestured for five VIPs to enter. At the top of the stairs I felt a tap on my shoulder. Apparently, I wasn’t a VIP.
In the morning you slept in my arms. I held onto you without restraint. I couldn’t sleep; yet, peacefulness embraced me. My eyes transfixed on your beautiful body, consuming every inch—I became captured in your essence. You truly are beautiful my dear. I'm grateful to have met you.
Sadness fills my soul as it struggles to hold onto this happiness. You've entered my life, and the visit will be fleeting. I long for you to feel the same way as me. I understand you may not. I don't want you to leave—you've helped me to replace my frowns with smiles. I can't thank you enough.
I’ll miss you deeply—I can‘t explain why. I hope one day our paths cross again. When they do, I hope we become lost in each other.
I lay naked, exhausted from the previous night of passion. Beads of moisture formed on my brow, the taste of her sweet lips were fresh on mine. The throes of passion we'd experienced left me wanting more; more of her silky smooth legs, more of her flavourful skin. Her arousal completed me.
Now, the only thing covering my well-muscled loins was her essence. I longed for a repeat of the night—maybe one day. I'll keep a spot open for her in my heart, for now--
—Welcome to London. The current London time is 11:30 AM. We hope you’ve enjoyed your flight. The current London temperature is a haughty +15 (C).
The cabbie looked crazed, performing brain crunches in front of us—squeezing and releasing until the veins began to protrude out of his skull.
His face was now beet red. He didn’t withhold his vile disgust for our words. Seventeen veins were blasting out of his cranium. His head was on the verge of exploding. Here was a man, responsible for our first impression of London—and he wanted no part of welcoming us. He rasped up his voice and barked.
Cabbie: You have to be fucking kidding? Don't you know where you're fucking going?
Me: We’ll pay you—I said sheepishly.
Midday was upon us. We had no place to stay. We were barely seventeen steps into London when we glimpsed two ninjas and a zombie. They were carrying banjos; alive in the daytime, created by oversleeping.
We blinked. When we opened our eyes, a Strongbow and Guinness were in our hands.
Farewell sobriety, your visit was painful.
I took a sip, and my reflection was once again, reflecting.
We had just introduced ourselves to a gaggle of sophisticated Londoners. The artistry of language flowed freely between them. I needed them to fall in love with Canadians. I attempted to conquer sophistication.
My madness worked. Our globetrotting rock star ways, along with a smattering of depth and our obliterating charm, enthralled them. They became friends.
Dave and I became obliterated as Andy plied us with drink.
They invited us to join them at their next stop: a wine bar with a one-billion-year-old-tree growing right through the bar.
A billion-years-old is old.
What’s that dirt?
The curtain on our first glorious night in London was drawing shut. Only twenty blocks separated us from Dreamland. Somehow, in London taxi math, twenty blocks = 30£—or roughly, $60 Canadian.
I checked the mirror in our room. My head had LOSER tattooed on it—Dave's, SUCKER.
I pledged to kill the next cab driver I saw—and then drifted off to sleep.