Last Exit to Brooklyn
History, histrionics, hypocrisy and hysteria. The Boy Scouts, the Hitler Youth, the Jugendamt for misplaced persons under the age of six.
Where does the time go? Up in smoke, down the gaping maw of history. History is just waiting to happen.
I think I’ll write another novel and rip history a new asshole. Come out swinging. Give them something to think about, the bland opposition that has nothing going for it except sheer numbers. Stick this down your pie hole I’ll say and send it off to some anorexic literary agent.
Who knows what might come of it? A trip to China, book-club notoriety, sex with the anorexic lit agent. Fan mail, hate mail and the sudden reappearance of lost loves.
Nothing ventured nothing gained. With enough irreverence I can knock it out before Christmas and then learn to ski. Look out Switzerland, here I come. Why not? The jig’s not up. In a dream last night a little green frog told me I’d live to see 90 if I ate right.
I’ll break out the old manual typewriter and get back in touch with my soul. Type thru the night at a card table eating carrots and drinking black coffee and smoking like a chimney, Coltrane on the stereo. Pull out all the stops.
If you’ve got a better idea, let’s hear it, but make it fast. This is the last exit to Brooklyn.
