The Hat

Whatever it takes... Jim Carrey, The Mask

Night and day were no more than relative terms; they did not refer to an absolute condition. At any given moment it was always both. The only reason we did not know it was because we could not be in two places at the same time.
- Paul Auster (City of Glass , 1985)

Another night of crippled fantasies. I wore my hat. It's a special hat. I think it holds innate powers to make me something I am not. It made me dance to I Shot the Sheriff. It allowed me to hug three women, and shake one man's hand before I left the hall. It allowed me to hang out backstage, and not even bat an eye to the fact that a burlesque dancer was undressing on my immediate right. It's hard to get my attention when my hat is on my head. The hat persuaded me to eat a light dinner, drink three shots of bourbon on rocks, and six bottles of Sleemans, which sat empty on the table in front of me, creating an inventory of clear glass for all to see. I left early though. I walked down a hill on the east side, the entire city lay in front of me, it's lights twinkling through tight cold air. I was listening to an old My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult on my headphones as I descended into the throbbing ghetto of beggars, cheaters, and crack whores. Even though I could feel the cold of the night nipping through the cracks of the bus's doors, I didn't feel it with my hat on. The #20, pulled by it's electric cables through the roughest neighbourhood in town didn't intimidate my hat. I announced to everyone on the bus as I stepped down to exit, "Have a good night everyone!"

It's a fine hat, my hat, it's from an Island.