Under the influence with my influences

Sweet-hop-loving-christ. I swear Stone (one of most favoritist of California micros) must have made a massive keg run to New York recently. Three of the pubs I frequent all have at least two Stones on tap. On tap! You know how hard it is to get a bottle of that stuff let alone a pint glass full of it!? I’m using my want for supporting Stone as a reason to why I find myself at the bar more than usual.

Shel’s poem “Sick” was originally about syphilis.

He wrote some songs too – one was called “Julie’s Working,” about a prostitute. Another was called “I Love My Right Hand” – I’m not gonna explain that one.

Last night there was a free outdoor screening of “The Fountainhead”. It was interesting to watch this movie that (on the surface) is about architecture while sitting beneath skyscrapers.
Even though the screenplay was written by Rand, I prefer the book. But the best line from the movie, and one that I will work into many conversations:
“Incidentally, since it is of no importance to you, I love you.”

My compatriot and I thought it would be a fine idea to go from the Chelsea hotel to the White Horse and try to drink 18 shots of whisky during our journey. I think we maybe had 18 between us. Don’t recall much other than sitting on the ground outside the White Horse reciting Thomas lines.

---

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I’ve tripped like Thompson. Drunk like Bukowski. And have questioned like Vonnegut.

I want to visit their graves and memorials and have a drink with them, or in honor of them, and listen.