Bay window (Part II)

Earlier today I saw a bearded guy with big sad eyes leaning on a fire extinguisher outside the blues club, his countenance strangely at odds with what I'm sure he was feeling. He had crazy pants made to look like paint was dripped on them haphazardly. (I actually own a pair of pants on which, over the course of a month of work, all kinds of paint flecks had collected--it looks nothing like his pants.) The incident would be forgettable except that ten minutes later I saw those crazy pants outside my window, and it gave me pause. It flashed me back to twenty minutes before, walking down a vibrant (at the time, I thought "too fucking vibrant!") street; seven (seven!) different types of music vied for dominance, turning every meter of sidewalk into a unique (and sometimes interesting) experience; huge tapestries depicting Ganeesha blew in the breeze; black-clad intellectuals carrying hopelessly heavy book crates ambled down, their eyes as sad as those of pants-guy; rivulets of milk came out of the stores, flash-flooding anthills in the gutter; the overcast sky juts groaned over all this. I fought to keep down the abstract propositions welling up from somewhere; no crates filled with theology or Derrida oppress me; I'm keeping to two books at a time: one fiction and the other non-. Such combinations are endless sources of the writing impulse.

Consider: "Who are these Swine ? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush ? ..... They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and viscious in the American character.... I piss down the throats of these Nazis. And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck Them."