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There was a lot mumbling and muttering (or whatever the equivalent is in written form) about NYC during the Das Boot section, and whether or not Jay would end up there next. Well, sure enough, in these pages we find out he did. This section takes up almost directly after leaving the boat, and tracks his efforts during the first months to navigate the city and find a job and, maybe, love. Continues for several months in this fashion.

Hello, NYC! i (16/26)

April 2, 1991

Choose a different dreamscape

Last night, with Ad-man… late we ventured to the streets and late the streets opened themselves obligingly to us until we hit the Bleeker strip, so touristry to some, but just what the doctor ordered, for others (e.g. us). Terra Blues where a free (thank god) Jimmy Hendrix commemorative thing was billed as unfolding. And it was and we did… sure enough: guitar player (cordless) marching through a throng of charged + writhing bodies, stepping up to the bar, on a stool, ON the bar, ALONG the bar, delicately stepping and bridging beer mugs and pretzel bowls and pocketbooks and stacks of bar-naps and beer taps… while some woman got up there and danced and swayed beside him. Reminiscent of S.F. on my way back X-country with Christoph and the guitarist who ventured, cordless, to the street only to be slammed by a zealous motorist. Twang! (But that’s another story.)

So in this case the sweat sprayed from his huge neck + face as he lifted the guitar behind his head and the Hendrix riffs twisted from the speakers by the stage, everyone fired up and frenzied.

Later, another dark-skinned latina w/compact what might be termed a ‘shit house’ frame and 4” stilettos on thigh-high boots which hugged just below the black leather/lycra skirt that hugged her ass just above it. The skirt wanted to rise as she bucked and pitched and spread herself across + along the bar, and she let it and then pulled it down and then let it rise again. Quickly apparent to all the men and women who watched from below that she wore no underwear beneath her frayed and tearing nylon. What a turn-on, not least so for herself. Every drooling, slant-eye nutcase in the place wanted and tried to get close to her flesh. And she obligingly draped herself across whatever shoulder, arm, chest was available in return. Spit beer on my leg at one point. License to do as she chose, I say; I wasn’t about to object. At one point as she bowed back across the bar, I saw the man next to me (black guy… from the band) insert his hand, flat, between her thighs. I can only imagine to explore the mysterious contours and creases beneath. She seemed fine w/it; no indication otherwise. Should someone have stopped all this, or it, or him, or her, chided her, advised her otherwise? She wasn’t that wasted, that I could tell, tho definitely drunk on the attention, and who knows what-all else. We all just let it go. On with the show!

In other news, I just finished Travels w/Charley and now to begin Sheltering Sky.

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