14,210. THE BLOWOUT AT CUGOMORA

THE BLOWOUT AT CUGOMORA

Over in Africa, they get old

tee shirts by the thousands.

Star Wars and Back To the

Future, combined in a playland

of Rhinos and fast-track gazelles.

It all looks pretty good on some

tall, thin, local who doesn't even

know what it means. Like wearing

Kool tee's in a cancer lab?

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Here, we get garbage scows out

on the ocean, dropping the piles

of New York shit 12 miles out.

I've seen it. The whole side opens

up, and out comes the flow, and

five minutes later the brown-cloud

of filth hits the fishing area I'm in.

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None of this is ever mentioned and

the less said, the better. You can't run

for Mayor while disclosing all this,

or you'd be running from shit for the

end of your days and the locals don't

vote, they just rave at this.

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It's gotta' go somewhere, the diceman

notes. He's sitting at a table at Gennaro's,

sucking down another espresso while

taking bets on the horses. 'S'cuse me,'

he says, as he gets up, 'be right back.

I gotta' see a man about a horse.'