I’m not really hearing the things that are
being said in the back of the limousine, just words—technobeat, slamming,
moonscape, Semtex, nirvana, photogenic—and names of people I know—Jade
Jagger, Iman, Andy Garcia, Patsy Kensit, the Goo-Goo Dolls, Galliano—and
fleeting pieces of subjects I’m usually interested in—Doc Martens, Chapel Hill,
the Kids in the Hall, alien abduction, trampolines—because right now I’m
fidgeting with an unlit joint, looking up through the limo’s sunroof, spacing on
the sweeping patterns spotlights are making on the black buildings above and
around us.