I had a dream last night that I had an extensive prank street pay phone call. A retro dream. My one time, fellow freak in arms, genuine NYC maniac, homeskillet Damian had the perfect spot for random phone attacks. Bomb pad on the top floor, Second Avenue and Tenth Street. Not only did his crib have a outdoor chainlink fenced in deck out the back. He also had the only roof access for the building, sprawling landscape of street activity.

For the love of stuffed peppers! The digits for the payphone attached to the pastrami haven, 2nd Ave Deli, on the corner across the street from the bomb crib, were boldly and clearly printed above the keypad. Ran back to the party to hand over the evidence. Smirks and devil grins, eyeing the cordless.

Clandestine view of random pedestrians picking up a ringing payphone from the rooftop. Dangling feet off the precipice. Twisted and sparked, suppressing puckish giggles, pranking the open aired public.

Transport back to spanky dreamscape. Extensive prank call to a gaggle of boombatty bouyant assed young Puerto Rican chicks, all their heads wrapped in colorful bandanas. I was insisting to speak to Mr. Cockin Balz. And then later on, calming down after a slow and steady increasingly heated discussion, informed them that I would settle to talk to Senor Balz's partner Mr. Hammer Frost. Cockin Balz and Hammer Frost goddammit! By the time I had them asking aged strangers strolling down the block, and scouring the restaurant for these two law partners, the alarm blazed.

I miss my homie with the phat ( yes I utilised the ph, smoke my oldschool butt flakes, sho ya right ) pad with the dope roof. He succumbed to the dank matrimonial pit of despair this last spring. Actually, he lost the spot after the chick before the ball and chain, fucked up the deal for him. Crackhead hobag. Some of my most joyous experience points of origin were at that modest square footage with high ceilings on the brink of the East Village. Fuckin melancholy.

Yep fuckin melancholy.