Welcome to The Tricksters' Paradise, welcome to Coincidenceville, welcome to Tingle Town, where one falls with the apple. To be in the maze of one's own mind and to crash on the land of delusions as strange and bizarre as some passion of the drunkards' crackling fates. The narrative is simple on the surface: a young guy raised in a suburb basically goes up to the big city and spirals farther and further into a wailing demented drunkenness and drops to the very heartless cries of the contact highs of snakes in the dull yellow of tobacco stained fingers. Ah yes and then there's the Halloween Girl, in fact, I just saw her the other day, she the genius of the underworld, and me dropped down to the pit of sidewalks covered in angel dust inhaling Thurber's Last Flowers. That these writings are a long gone era, Generation X now and perhaps a Bayt Generation, consequently the lone wasted Pan in the deadland forshadows, in the rambling case where a vortex of beer and smoke lit up the nights with Rasta rebels in the bloodshot spotlight bender of all benders. Five years of reading Bukowski every day...