mr. zilla goes to town

Friday, April 11, 2003

disoccident

To each according to his need. My head is still lagged, so I'm in Kramer's again, truffling through the papers, rooting for meaning I can give away to 'black-elvis-Blelvis', the beggar outside. Somewhere I learned to hate the sin and loathe the cinema. So I squint at the 2000-pound blockbusters that play daily, but in this suckered solar multiplexus, the focus is feckless.

"Why are we at war?" asks Norman Mailer, nodding to the waitress, who pulls us both another beer.

"[The US] is the only nation that polices the world through five global military commands; maintains more than a million men and women at arms on four continents; deploys carrier battle groups on watch in every ocean; guarantees the survival of countries from Israel to South Korea; drives the wheels of global trade and commerce, and fills the hearts and minds of an entire planet with its dreams and desires."
Is that why I'm here? To smell the breath that belches from the belly of this beast? Mailer morphs into Ibrahim the Eritrean freelance journalist & conversationalist. There are no answers yet, but at least the human traffic signals are beginning to cajole questions from the neural noise.

Tomorrow there's a protest, and there I'll see if these streets have more to say. But now its time to try a medieval cure for jet lag: out-drinking two English backpackers. By 2AM I send a stoikingly smashed email from the hostel, and then sail towards a calmer coma.

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