Separate realities and subordinate realities, realities supreme. Realities with hidden clauses. Harsh realities and get-real realities. Customized realities, take Mark Morford for instance, columnist for the San Francisco Gate, who daily concocts a reality laced with aged wine, Maseratis, yoga and nubile babes; a slippery-eel reality with an index-card mind that can pull up anything it damn well pleases and make it work with something else it really shouldn’t oughta, like porno and Mother Theresa, Rush Limbaugh and horny toads, supernovas and toasters. Morford can write a column about a new booze called Zen and a Visa card called Enlightenment and be more amused than upset, because really, in the cosmic scheme of things, such affronts to upper-echelon spiritual reality are like throwing pebbles at a mountain!
You gotta love a guy who can come up with a line like that. I pull him into my reality and sit him down in a corner.