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Show Anting Alone pa g e 169 These were the sorts of extravagances that can only take place in huge cities among no-longer-young leftwing men, the largest of whom has recently extorted one good student loan. They were the sorts of disorienting extravagances where, in an advanced form of the game of "chicken," you pay a homosexual gigolo to come sodomize you and your pals - Well, Sam and Axelrad didn't actually take part in that particular depressing thing. But they did chip in a good part of Sam's student loan so they could watch and talk and look at the bought homo while their Texan or Illinoisan friends all lined up, ready to stick bare hairy butts in the air, to see who would be brave enough to panic and snap cheeks shut last. That's very icky. Almost unmentionably icky. But there is a sort of elemental beauty in its sheer advancedness. You must admit that it would be difficult to devise a more advanced game of "chicken." You see, Sam and Axelrad both wanted to be writers one day. and Sam said that they needed to start accumulating experience. Only extravagant experience interested Gulf Oil's subsidiaries anymore. So grownup gradstudent Sam dove into Houston or Chicago and joined grownup gradstudent Axelrad in the sorts of extravagance where everybody gets out of their heads and winds up in a moiling circle with or without total strangers, exchanging intensely affectionate or hateful blows or caresses, and not one intelligible word is uttered for hours on end. Aborigine time. Animal time. Gland time. And they would eat all the various cacti and mushrooms whose so-called psychomimetic effects Axelrad would dismiss, even while stuffing his mouth and floating off his couch, as "nothing more than glorified dizziness." |