Skyscraperland

Two forces jostle each other in the American Psyche: the drive to make it big in the culture of corporate skyscraperland; and the yearning to escape these cell-blocks and embrace “meaningful” existence by roaming the frontier as some kind of cowboy or new age hipster.

Smith & Wollensky, corner of Third Avenue and 49th Street (tel. 753-1530), is a big (seating capacity: 400), old-fashioned green and white wooden building in the heart of Third Avenue skyscraperland.

The editor, some butch British fuck named Arthur St. George, took it upon himself to turn his review of Rocket Heart into an editorial on the evils of irresponsible rock-star life and made this screed the Editor’s Note, right under a picture of him looking smarmy at his desk in skyscraperland.

A replaying perhaps by my mind / of the time / I lost my passport / in San Francisco / and the hectic day spent / reporting to police / reporting to Consulate / obtaining emergency passport / checking insurance / rebooking flight / by internet / by telephone / by footslog tram taxi uphill downhill / in amazing steephill skyscraperland / of movie memories