On the tapedeck: Ain’t No Santa Claus by Trick Daddy
It’s a foggy night in the Land of Broken English and I’m cruising Hollywood Blvd looking for a signal. I got words to broadcast and the man is restricting his access with prissy passwords. But like all rats, I’m persistent. I’ve got my go-to spots. If Hollywood won’t give it up, there’s always the Starbucks on Riverside and Tujunga (pronounced like a stuttering female John* when she first eyes the grithy goods - Ta HUNG gah). My venture has already cost me money. Pulling over on Sunset at Vine (I thought the BOA was giving it away but it turned out my Dell was having some sort of digital hiccup) and a guy asks me to change a buck. Of course, once he’s got my quarters, he explains that he is not in fact looking for change but instead a hobo looking for free money. Now he’s got my money in his scabberous paw and at that point and I don’t really feel like turning my car’s change shelf into a petri dish so I wave him on. And I can’t even feel good Samaritanian about it since he rooked me. The street makes you crafty, I guess.
Of course, I’m the one cruising public streets looking for free internet.
I’m a digital dumpster diver, a low-fi shoplifter, a character from a William Gibson novel. My name is Jek and my hardboiled tech noir splits the black ice of the Interdang security system like a cyberknife slicing through a stack of buttery binary code! My salsa’s so high tech, it’s got a chip in it!
I am the Literary Wave Pirate! I stalk the highways and byways of this modern-day dystopia in my ’88 Volvo with my Vista powered laptop seeking the free flowing signal-river into which I can ejaculate my word jizz. (Did I mention I’ve been reading Willy Burroughs lately? I push letters out my junk hole to plug the junk dyke with my…junk).
LATER! Now I’m on the corner of Lexington and Vermont. No signal here but there is an empty parking lot and the predictable black cat lurking in the corner behind a taco wrapper. The fog is closing in. The Hollywood Hotel lured me here with promises of lubricated, unsecured signals but once I tapped in, she asked for a user name and password. Oh, Holly Hote. You are a tease. I should call the front desk and say “Yo, I ain’t stayin’ in your place but I’m lookin’ at your pretty blue lights in the fog and…can I get up in yo signal so can pump my word action into the net?” I’m sure the black choppers would be all over me at that point. I’m on the run for a reason!
*Would a female John be a Johnette? Or a Jane? I’ll have to look that one up. But from a secure location. Like the library! My manifesto awaits!