This morning shit is beat ass. Spanky molecular fibers are unsuitable for dawn action.

YEAR TWENTY THREE: Tune in, turn on and drop out. In my case, the departure from NYU would be - cash gone, wise up and drop the fuck out. NYU didn't care that my pop was laid off and I had to start working forty hours a week on an overnight shift just to survive, much less pay for school. Already the bursar fangs drained all life out my bank account. NYU wanted my money, not an alumni, period. Recognising that they had tapped my pipe dry, they turned their back on me. Bunch of scummy Coney Island whitefish.

So, halfway through my last semester I stopped going to classes. Remained in the dorms till the absolute last minute. Moved in with my pals Damian and Finn on Second Avenue between Tenth and Ninth Streets. My possesions huddled around me like a shanty town wall, sleeping on the floor.

Shot my graduating, if graduating was an achievement meant for me, film in that apartment. Overcrowding in the editing suites, with preferential admittance given to grad film students, prevented me from splicing together my student opus.

Masters in film production. Feh. You leechy daddy fingering life tourists. These anti-action figures were taking the exact same courses as us lowly bachelor film degree strugglers. With the stink of masters in their curriculum title, NYU honored them each with a golden Wonka Bar ticket. Wha's da matta? Discovered a bachelor degree in philosophy, music theory or Incan history wasn't as sturdy a career shield as you thought it would be? Professional mouth breathers.

One actor bailed on me moments before the shoot. His mother in the background cussing him out for being a slacker. Thank him for fucking me and slam the phone receiver down. Rearranged some of the shoot, and took up the acting duties for the unreliable primadonna. My performance was cracking up the crew, grooving and making Flava Flav noises. The cinematographer was excited off his nipples that I wanted numerous trick shots and purposeful arty angles. Overall it was a party production all spanky ghetto style. I even had a Shaniqua in the movie.

That crib was dope. Three bedroom for fifteen hundred. Top floor of a four story walk up. Balcony porch out the back. Link fence surrounding weathered wood slats, that creaked and made the picnic table seesaw when people got up and sit down on it. Propane fueled grill. I masterfully threw down on the open flame.

My sexy culinary skills were always impressing the cast of females we would entice to a Manhattan BBQ party. You have to treat cuts of meat like women. Marinating and seasoning them like well planned foreplay before enveloping them with the searing lusty fire. I was also captained to squeeze the juice from three dozen or more fresh limes every soiree. The renown house drink was our tart Stoli gimlets up, in frosted martini glasses. Our mad alchemy skills produced heady potions of Cosmo's, Bloody Mary's and Margaritas as well, all geared for feline palates. One solid hint that always works, substitute Cointreau for Triple Sec wherever possible, and discover cocktails that work well with Chambord. Chicks love Chambord. Chambord mixed with decent champaign will get the clits humming like glowbugs.

A metal step ladder was bolted to the back of the crib, accessible from the free standing back balcony. Roof access. Inebriated feet dangling from gilded Gotham plaster cornice. Jeans and palms smudged with black tar. Passing the spliff down the line, running commentary on the nightlife foot traffic below. Perfect city voyeur perch.

Imp inspiration struck. I presented a general question to the posse. "I wonder if those pay phones have their numbers displayed?" Scott, this sardonic grump machine, hustled down to the street. Cackling thumbs up. Game on.

We pranked innumeral marks on Second Ave. Simply amazing how many people feel free enough to pick up a ringing pay phone. Haven't they watched enough movies? Even casual and well warranted paranoia should keep the average melvin from putting that receiver to their temple. What if the brown noise was about to hit your ear canal? I had one man convinced I was a native of Pakistan stranded in Spanish Harlem. Call finale with my man screaming from the sidewalk "Run! Run! For god sake run!". Had people convinced that vans parked near them were monitoring their activity. Jaws dropped as we described what they were wearing. One out of five victims would spot us in the air holding our guts and wailing with laughter. They always took it in stride, NYC has a good sense of humor.

Damian got chased out of that apartment years later. Felt like the death of a close friend. Out of all the old spots in Manhattan, I miss that one the most.