On the flight to New York I looked over some materials that had been handed to me by a medicine man in the airport. How they let him in, I don't know. But Lord knows he wouldn't have made it into LaGuardia, what with the bones around his neck and his battery of noxious smelling potions and blood red powders. All in all, I can't say he didn't look just like Papa Shango.
He had only handed me a pamphlet, luckily, and a drug-sniffing dog sniffled right past it in line. Unfortunately, I couldn't read it because the letters kept on changing around like in a nightmare. Oh well, I thought. At least I'll have a good story to tell when I get to New York University.
I was looking forward to hopping off my New York flight and hailing a taxi downtown for a delicious meal at a New York restaurant. The next day I would be entering the big, hip world of New York University, and I took pains to fortify myself at one of the finest restaurants New York has to offer.
My old friend Jackson Pollock called me about six minutes after I got out of the airport. He is not the dead, famous painter - but a painter nonetheless. He wanted me to come to Newburgh for a big party - a night of wine and avant-garde music.
"Geez," I said to him. "You should have told me before. I would have taken a flight to Stewart Airport in Newburgh, New York."
"Well, no matter, my friend. Just take the Metro-North to Newburgh. It won't be much more than an hour."
I consented, and the party was fabulous. Sadly, I missed my first class at New York University the next day.
