The Village Voice

He picked The Village Voice up from his dining table, not minding that this revealed the tacky green surface beneath. It was post-workday, he'd thrown away his boots for bare feet. The evening breeze blew away his memories. Feeling liberated in a t-shirt and loose karate pants, he squatted on the cheap corkwood floor. He leaned against the wall. This was a good place to read. Down on the ground he could see the underside of the table, the bed. The view was different, and everything was bigger, like warm dark caves.

Flipping through the Voice he saw: 5 dance, theater, "assorted" shows on Monday, endless bars lining Tuesdays, dozens of eateries up and down Manhattan all around. The Village Voice is a village of insane people! Who the hell could do all this in one week? It's not even the fucking weekend yet!

So this was the City, he thought. You don't read the paper to find out what's happening this weekend so you can all go. You read the paper to find out all the stuff you can't go to. He liked this, he liked conquest but even better, a city that was unconquerable.

And on the back, an ad from the Virgin Megastore. CD's were on sale, nevermind that Virgin (he scowled) was the most expensive record store ever. You could buy Coldplay or Stg. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band for $10. Not bad. The kicker, though, was John Coltrane & Thelonius Monk, also $10.

He grinned. Not that $10 was a steal for John Coltrane & Thelonius Monk; or maybe it was, he didn't actually know. But Thelonius Monk and John Coltrane featured in a full-page ad by the big-box hoarder, right next to Shakira's Oral Fixation. Why? Because they think it will sell, they think it has a market.

Well, he liked this market.