I arrived in New York City late, somewhere around 11.30 p.m., from Europe. With just enough jet lag to keep my peepers wide open for one too many hours - my brain crowded with the threat of Mr. Sun's arrival, knowing that soon he'd nudge me out of my snooze and into the world. I shut my eyes tight with the hope that he might be tardy.
Woke up the following morning - or rather, a couple of hours later - with a very prompt Mr. Sun stabbing through the black protection of my eyelids. The rotten bastard had found me.
I pitched and tossed and turned and spun - doing my best to avoid him - until I just couldn't take it anymore. I forced the heavy lids up and open and stared the eyeballs straight into the beastly light. I dunked my face into the pot of hot coffee and dove out the window and thus began the day. Things to do... Up. Awake. Onward. Forward.
I made my way downtown to St. Mark's Place to a bookstore of the low-down, the lowbrow, the bohemian, the subterranean-counterculture-drop-out types. My mission - to get my paws on some fine literature suitable for... well, you'll find out. First and foremost, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by the good doctor himself, Dr. Hunter S Thompson - a must for anyone and everyone... especially anyone in need of a serious excursion from their four walls. Second on the list, Tarantula by Bob Dylan - we need say nothing about him or his genius. Third, Kerouac - anything at all by ol'Jack... On The Road being the Bible. And why not throw in a little taste of Burroughs and Ginsberg while I'm at it.