t h e s a l o n
In the fountain is a large man in a white dress... In one hand he holds a paper cup with a blue Parthenon emblazoned on it to collect the change he uselessly attempts to bum (New Yorkers are not so easily entertained). In the other, a bottle of Colt 45.
No less a personage than Timothy Leary (or at least a bit of his ashes) has been fired past the atmosphere to circle us, a tiny satellite, a very minor moon. This is, I am told, a commercial service; if your survivors can afford it, you too can be sprinkled in the sky.