November 13th, 1998.

New York City. What a cesspool.

I came here on a redeye, coked out my skull, wearing a striped navy blue suit, a bow tie, and tandem brown leather shoes and belt. Barry Levinson bought the shoes and belt for me as a gift because I gave him his start in the picture business with “Diner.” What a man. What a motion picture.

I’ve been in New York for two hours and I already miss my majestic and voluptuous mistress, Hollywood – her curvy palm trees, the way she wakes up with cocaine or synthetic heroin around her nostrils, the way she whispers to me as if I were a lost angel needing someone to bring me back to Heaven. Hollywood. What a woman. What a beautiful whore.

I stayed at the Ritz Carlton and took my usual spot. I went outside for some air, even though the rain poured down, emptying out the streets. It was nice getting some rain on the skin after that beautiful Hollywood would only give me hot air waves, sun and tanning beds. I asked someone nearby where the nearest French bistro was and a gross, poor, but nice man gave me directions to the nearest one. I quickly ran toward it and didn’t even have time to open my umbrella, as it was only a few blocks away. I finally arrived. The waiter looked like Jerry Seinfeld, but even uglier.

“May I have some escargot?” I asked.

He looked at me as if I had asked him for uranium.

“We don’t serve escargot here, sir,” he quipped, then walked away.

“What the fuck is wrong with this city?” I thought. If I were in Hollywood, I’d be swimming in snails and garlic sauce.

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Catch the rest of this New York madness in SN12: Festivus, hitting Amazon on December 23rd.

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