All Things Must Pass (B-sides)

Drunk off but three gulps I sit here in my five-hundred dollar room and listen to George Harrison beg forgiveness from God. A bartender with pigtails and a well-carried paunch helped bring me here. She flirted with me amiably and fished for my birthday. I flirted back, in spite of her preoccupation with astrology and with no other motive than some human back and forth. "I'm a Leo, as if you didn't know already," she purred. I smiled, but I kept writing. My Bloody Valentine was playing on the jukebox, a song called "Only Shallow". Reminded of the moment I bought that record, I was in turn overcome by a myriad of other St. Mark's Place memories: a group of arabs peddling silly hats and bongs to european teenagers, mingling smells of yakitori and magnolias, the buzz of what I thought was love, an iced tea with pieces of lychee in it. Instead of writing any of this down, I signaled my bartender, "I'm ready for that blind PBR taste test".
Two Narragansett tall boys and a free shot later I ran into a friend of mine - a Willem Dafoe look alike. Toothy and bug-eyed he told me how he had just cleaned up in a grab game. "I can win something in four bucks," he explained animatedly, "it's all a matter of shift, grab, drop, shift, grab, drop." His prize was a DVD, which he wore in his breast pocket in place of a kerchief. The DVD was called 'All Natural Babes' and on the cover was a picture of a naked woman with beautiful flowing curls squatting, legs open, about to suck a large, uncircumcised cock. "I've never been one for finding a sense self-worth in drugs or alcohol - I've found other things, yes - but winning porn in a drop game: I don't know why, but that makes you feel a better man." I laughed, but he was only half-joking. "I've been on a natural high for the past, like, three hours"
We wanted to play darts, but there were no open boards, so we opted for pool instead. I spent the whole game remembering that billiards place on twenty-sixth and fifth in Manhattan, of a time where there was no need to qualify such statements as "twenty-sixth and fifth". There were no burgeoning lines on my face then, no erythema in my colon. A girl there one night pitched past me carrying two pool cues and something about her gait reminded me of the past. "I know her from somewhere," I told my disparate group of friends. We were all thinking the same thing. We spent a good part of the night laboring to identify her, until one of us realized that underneath the piercings and the tattoos and skinny, skinny arms, she was Becky from "Roseanne". The first one. This realization carried with it a deep, abstract sadness.
"Judah! Tell your friends it's time to fucking leave." The order came from the same prog-rocker looking bouncer who took a full minute to inspect my I.D. Shaking hands with the Lioness bartender, I left to come back here with nothing to do but write run-on sentences and eat an almond butter and jelly sandwich and listen to All Things Must Pass B-Sides, wondering if anything I write will have any emotional resonance with ANYone but myself; whether it's even a good idea to be updating my blog after drinking. All the while George is still singing, pleading, "Oh, wont you hear me lord!"