I think you know...., I am a recovering schizophrenic and that was supposed to be a joke. 

Well let’s see to begin with Christ was a soul brother so all the black hating so called Christians can get off the fucking bus at the next stop look at the part of the world he was from who the hell do they think he looked like, Basil Rathbone? Lawrence freakin’ Olivier? Leslie be a good fellow and pass the bleedin’ Rothmans Howard? Why can’t they get with the program he was olive skinned to begin with at the very least and spent most of his life outdoors soaking up the desert sun. How irritating when reality refuses to conform to prejudice. And of course Christ was a Jew, Christians are people who believe in the teachings of Christ, Christ, however, was of the Jewish persuasion, why am I the only person willing to point this out? So that means that all the anti-Semites are also invited to remove their misbegotten bottoms from the fucking bus. A person cannot be anti-Semitic and be a Christian at the same time, this is a square circle, a thing which cannot be, by definition. My mind understands great truths, truths which others either cannot see or refuse to see. My mind has all the answers, is there anything you need to know? Can you understand the painful weight of being wise when all of those around you are blind?

Being in the city had an advantage for me. City cops are jaded. There’s constant action in a city. A car cruising at four in the morning doesn’t raise an eyebrow. Try doing this in the lily-white suburbs sometime and see how far you get. There’s very little traffic so the roads are easy to navigate. If you’re floating on a raft of euphoria and marijuana, as I was, this can be very ooch rabazibby. And it’s very otherworldly. Large, well-lit boulevards are deserted, as though a neutron bomb had been dropped and killed the people but left the buildings standing. Everything looks cleaner, clearer, more perfectly defined. It was just me and the cabs. The cabs, the cops, the hookers, the homeless, the dealers, the debris. It’s a whole other world out there at night, a world of odds and ends, odds and unevens. Of things and people that don’t fit nicely into proper categories. And I was snaking through it in the comfort of my mini-limo, high, warm, shimmying to the funky rhythms on the radio, pumped up on the power I exerted over my growing litter of kittens. I was bad. Bad enough to make it in the big time. Bad enough to rip the cover off.

Back at home with a brain that boiled like a cauldron of Louisiana gumbo. What to, what to, what to do? Zelda bubbled up to the surface. Used to work together at an agency, still spoke now and again. Liked to feed me freelance. Didn’t see her much, used the phone. Had always been a chemistry between us which I’d been very careful to discourage. Married chicks had always been off limits, police barricade, don’t cross. And if that were not sufficiently sufficient, and it were, she was moody, spoiled, and unpredictable. Cheese not squarely on the cracker. But to quote the redoubtable Lord Buckley, “If you get to it, and you cannot do it, there you jolly well are, aren’t you?” Which is another way of saying, I was looking at all career options, full-time freelance, free time full-lance, ad copywriting was a favorite. Half a dozen thoroughbred accounts in the barn and I could be completely independent. Fuck the corporate world and how they did me, wouldn’t treat a stepchild like that, but like they always say, he who laughs last, laughs flaff flaff flaff flaff flaff. With projects pouring in from Zelda, and all the other angels I would meet, prosperity was unavoidable.

Everything is, the way it is, for a reason. Or, it isn’t. Or both. Or neither. It’s so hard to tell. But I can tell you. I can tell you a mile away. I can tell you’re a mile away by the Luke in your eyes. Matthew. Mark. John upstairs on your left. A marvelous hat was timed by all. All’s well that’s oiled well. If you think the party is dull, circulate, if you think it’s fun, circle seven. Every won played Counts. Except those who played Contessas. The Count’s divorce was uncontessad. At the auction she was chomping at the bid. The subway in London is the fellow peon tube. Tube B or not Tube B? I once met a Jewish gangster exiled in the islands, his name was Bermuda Schwartz. European? No, it’s just ice in my pocket. Don’t step in the poodles. She was only a stableman’s daughter, but all the horsemen knew her. Then there was the performance artist who said, “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I’m like.” Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts Albert Finney. Remember that bastard Lester Maddox? He was a racist, and a brutal hatemonger. He was the Lester of two evils. Stop, I’m killing me! Want a drink? No thanks, I’m not drinking any more. Of course, I’m not drinking any less, either.

These are glory days for Invisible Driving. I’ve discovered the core position, The Empty Car. While performing The Empty Car I’m in the driver’s seat with feet on pedals in the normal arrangement but all of me above waist level is bent over, resting on the passenger’s seat. I have the mirrors set so that I can still see perfectly well but to all observers the car is unoccupied. It’s incredibly funny. We’re talking radnopolis funny. Impossible for me to pull this maneuver without cracking up into a squizzling, snerchified hysterical laughter. I laugh with a nervous, giddy delight at the sheer absurdity of it. I laugh with a childish delight at the outrageousness of it. I laugh with an anxious excitement, agitated by the risk. But I laugh most uncontrollably as I imagine the reactions of the passengers in the cars who see this apparition. The ghost car.

La, Happiness!