So here I am in the middle of Jersey, three-sheets to the wind, two-Guinesses drunk at Miss Fegs', home from a bar where the Mongoloid at the bar next to us took my tip ($3 on 3 $4.25 pints, a good leftist rate) to pay for yet another Amstel Light which he doesn't actually finish beyond a few sips, yet another example of Veblen-free conspicuous consumption, a falling short of drunkenness condoned by the Irish barkeeps, whom I have to tip another time, over $10 for a pint, it works out to, with the cute white Seton Hall boys still unattainable, and me raging about the usual imperialism, and capitalism, even of the hip-hop variety which makes for the 1-1/2 floor Urban Young Men's department of the Herald Square Macy's monitored by cops, thumbs-in-beltloops, protecting the capital represented by FuBu, Perry Ellis, Sean John, and Phat Farm. It's a strange experience, to be so face-to-face with hand-to-mouth-life, with numerous exes sanctified by the state of New Jersey, and kids who manage to survive despite it all, though I can sympathize, even if it's only so far as dipping into the convenience store for the supplies for potato-chip sandwiches, on which I was raised, despite the heretical variation supplied by whole-wheat bread instead of the usual white. It's all so post-Manhattan, as if the apocalypse had already come.

And Joephet is out with Alex Apnea, no doubt enacting his slinky wiles. But that's his business.

Dinner and long coffee with Kenneth, which was long overdue. I wonder how much we are dim mirrors of each other, our mutual desires, somehow mutually exclusive.

So it's a good life, fully independent of going back to work on Monday, living inbetween a slice of bread folded back onto itself, bulging with overfried fatty snacks.