Liberty, sure. But let me be the new poet of
Of shipbuilding and textile mills and steel towers hammered out by man’s mighty hands.
CHELSEA HANGOVER
Are we ensconced, as we write this, in our unbelievable New York City hideaway with the most spectacular hangover? We are. Are we wearing a New York Yankees ball cap to ward off the pain? We are. Is it working? No, it is not working.
Are there opera singers who would have us over for gnocchi in Washington Heights and force us to drink too much red wine? There are. Were we seen stumbling around, flagging gypsy cabs and racing, blurred, through the Manhattan night? We were. Did the Empire State Building glower green down upon us (and our friend S and the Killer) for what we did to our liver? It did.
One day we will tell you about our hideaway, and you will not believe it. One day we will tell you about our friend S, the money launderer, and you will not believe that either. One day we will describe to you the breathtaking beauty of a cloudy Chelsea morning with its bright grey sky softening the stunning faces of the gay yuppie condominiums that stand in rows. You will not believe it.
