the nervous vulnerability of the impala

Here is how I feel.
I am sick in the apt, sleeping, reading back-issues of teen mags and choosing courses from the NYU spring sem “it is cheaper if you don’t go for credit, but fuck a degree anyway” catalogue, and listening to lots of music but deriving the most pleasure from M.I.A. Arular. Mid-morn, my throat started closing in on itself, and I decided it was okay if “Bucky Done Gun” was the last song I ever heard before I died. Because I was about to. I cannot elaborate on any of this because I am on hard drugs.
Theraflu, hi, what is happening.
You will just have to read the review officiale. But oh my, that song is the realization of a feverdream. She’s like, “NYC, :London, Kingston, SILENCIO!” then she samples… the brass section from ABC 1984 Olympics theme? What is that?
On the third day, my fever broke and I hit my loco/indoors threshold. Hombre del F-J inspired a journey into manhattan to see Fade to Black at the only theater where it is still showing, Two Boots cinema on 3rd and Ave A.
Two Boots is a chain pizza restaurant distinguished by a wacky font. The movie screen is the size of a yardstick. It was 5 pm, I was the only person in the theater, and so I pretended I was at the concert. Two fingers up for Biggie. “Crazy in Love” and Jay looks PUMPED, like he’s getting away with something. He touches Beyonce’s hip and the look on his face is pure elation. Obviously I do not blame him; it is but one in a series of maddeningly charming Jay-Z moments. Missy’s part in “Is That Yo Chick” is marred by an oddly timed backing track, but it’s Missy Elliott and her charisma must be caught on tape. If you have not seen Honey, and you probably haven’t, rent it immediately and fast-forward to her part, it is five minutes of genius.
Rick Rubin has a taxidermied bison in his studio, which is less cool than Yes renting a cow, only because dead, preserved animals stink more than live, manure-y ones. I know; my mom’s friend was a taxidermist. Lots of Wyoming aggro huntermen have elk heads mounted above their fireplaces, but mom’s dude was pure slice-em-up bloodlust. His home decor was themed “CARCASS”: elephant hoof ottomans, tortoise-shell ashtrays, leopard rugs, monkey paws, a sign at their basement door that said “RUMPus Room,” which captioned THE ASS OF A GAZELLE, the plasticky body of a blue fucking marlin.. anything once-livng and stuffable was a piece of furniture to this dude. His house smell was verboten and gamey like a leather shop, like “what died?” Everything in your path, you maniac.
I don’t know who he was selling to, but it was the ’80s, so he had a big shop (cursoring googling says he was world-renowned) and he was loaded, of course. The shop’s prized, not-for-sale examples of dude’s artful taxidermist precision and creepy disdain for life were: the regal body of a GIRAFFE, and an aggravated grizzly bear, mid-roar. That could’ve been very Museum of Natural History, until you take into account the carnage I witnessed by like, second grade. They let me go into the sewing room. Would you like to know one reason I do not eat meat?
The taxidermist’s son is now raking in beaucoup dollares as a world-famous sculptor of Wyoming wildlife. I grew up with this stuff so I think it’s awful, but feel free to comment if your life is changed by this whimsical bronze cast of a mountain lion at play.