Jordache. Yes I embroidered BB at the top and no it doesn't stand for Bowery Bar. When I wore these for Halloween almost decade ago I went to get cigarettes and things for people getting ready and this big black lady was with friends sitting up on a mailbox and she bugged out. When I was coming back from the deli she put her hand up, all stop in the name of love, and said "ASS!" then quickly turned her hand around and showed me the back of it and said "OUT!". "ASS OUT!" I could show you how she did it with my hand. We do it all the time now.
The turnover of kids in my chain of buildings is huge. NYU sweetie. God awful and the sad thing is these kids that move have been raised with no aesthetic of culture except finance and then transplant themselves in my face after college and take their dorm culture with them in their faceless beer drenched reality. The never have curtains god forbid have curtains made. It's always a sheet or no... those awful Indain print things! Sometimes they hand one of those on the wall! Expect non dimming overhead lighting, cheap wooden shelving and a loft bed with tons and tons of extremely expensive electronics gathering dust. Awful.
There are things I don't document because they are private. Obviously, my own private parts haven't fit into the category of what I deem 'private', but to me this does. I'm not doing it again unless it's really abstract. Sooooo... Nothing like scotch and a cigarette after tennis, hm? I shouldn't have snapped it. Off the scale on my WASP-O-Meter. I think there was going to be a party there later because they puled out the moiree outdoor chairs. The ballroom never has the lights on so I was able to get the hand painted walls which, to this day, look like nobody has ever leaned on them.
It was great speaking with him. I actually want to get one of these so I can just shut up around guys and point and use body language. Or instead of getting one of these get those light up things you wave a plane in with.
Damn landlord hasn't fixed the damn busted skylight those damn NYU kids jumped on and done God damned busted. Filled up with water for a month. Make pretty butterfly on wall when sun hit around 1 pm.
Listen to the trippy noises! They're only open 9-3 weekdays, close earlier Saturday and no Sundays, you slobs.
I'm only doing brunch with people on weekdays now. Basically it's a part of my coming out with no shame about not working. Sorry. I'm embracing it. I may have a lot of time on my hands, but it's my time.
"Why be ashamed. We were not made to work, Reavis. We were made to hunt and eat and fuck and sleep." -Roger Padilla
I just figured it out! All these Gay guys with facial hair right now aren't hot experienced manly hot leathery dudes who know what they are doing - they are all lame sexually wet fish that looked all 'In Sync' not to long ago! I'm not femme phobic, but every groomed lumberjack dude I've tried to get to know ends up being a persnickety nally nerd with the demeanor of a nun with performance and assertiveness anxiety.
Don't get me wrong I still love the facial hair, intend to find real men and have a belief that some new men are being made. Personally, I returned back to having a smooth face with the luster of a minwax floor!
I knew Nick a long time ago. She kept two composition notebooks with club quotes from back in the day. She's been tagging them on facebook. Scared that I'm quoted in unison with Sebastian Junior.
I posted it before but this is Nick in her twisted state all drunk probably before that bouncer pushed her down an huge entire flight stairs at Red Zone.
My real fantasies and fantasy goal achievement is in in full swing (I have a cork chart mapping that, actually), but I will share with you the fantasy of my fantasies i.e. stories from the cutting room floor of the the great production that is the inside of MY HEAD.
FANTASY No.1: FUCKAKRISHNA.
Not this one.
I'm talking about the young ones with big strong jaws and eyebrows that float into the East Village from Westchester and try and join the more progressive looser Krishna organization on Ave. B. They always try and sell me the Gita and they are so agitated and actually not a peace (like actual Hindus and Buddhist often seem to be) that their unsettled nature is hot (like Mormon boys). They talk to be about enlightenment by the F train and I get closer and ask if they like that. You like that, huh? The walk away. In my passing fantasy one tells me that he is ready for the GKE (The Great Krishna Emanation), which is a Krishan's first orgasm (made it up). I'm not really into skinny guys but he has the most gigantic linga I have ever seen and is all shaved since it's one of their rituals. Since we are both virgins we run off together and since we don't want to pollute the planet with plastic we bareback and it's totally hot. Afterward he has a nervous breakdown and tells me his birth name and I comfort him but he's generally wrecked. Then I tell him I'm not a virgin but he's probably ok because he topped. I ask him his name as an act of good will as he leaves and he gets pissed cause he just told me his name. I ask him to call me as he runs down the stairs.
FAN TASSSY No.2: THE THROWN HORSEBACK RIDER
SO I'm at the polo grounds and I'm all mad and shitty cause I hate WASP culture but am somehow drawn to and also sprouted from it. I'm probably there cause it's free. Some big muscled angular Anglo guy (not the one above) goes galloping by and he gets thrown and is all sort of mangled but he still looks hot but he's all messed up and he's screaming cause the horse went face first and snapped it's neck and died and he loved the horse and they drag him to some really clean luxe barn that does not smell nearby (cause it's the Hamptons) and since its in a very remote part of the Hamptons.... Anyways they can't get an ambulance soon enough so they leave me with him for 3 1/2 hours and he moans about how he loved the horse and was IN LOVE with it and how it satisfied him and I tell him I'm not a horse but I make it work and when they come to get him... I've perfectly adjusted his spine with my passion so that he can walk away and he needs no medical assistance and wants me to come away with him and I'm like whatever I HAD you and I want to go home (that's where it comes back to reality).
TURN ON No.3: PILE DRIVERS
You hate them cause they wake you up. I hate them cause they wake me up and turn me on. It's hot.
If sex has never been like that for you than you live in a sad gray world.
So I just happened to come by some construction workers digging a ditch while I'm walking home tonight. Not so much my thing, but a bunch of guys lowering something into a manhole is always great. I was walking with a friend and he was talking and there were 4 or 5 construction workers lowering some heavy metal tube in a manhole and there was an older angry big foreman screaming and directing it and they were all bugging out and sweating it and I spaced out and stopped walking and got all sweaty and ignored my friend and he gently touched my elbow and brought be back to reality saying "You're fucking demented, Reavis. Come on let's go" followed by a few discreet hey you're nuts glances through the rest of the night.
One of the many holes in the city waiting to be used.
Lowering devices. I'm not going to steal from the City of New York, graffiti art is one thing, but if I order one it has to be motorized. Does the orange patina come from the factory artificially weathered so as to look worn and real?
It's been raining in NYC for a month solid - no joke. There was an electrical storm and then the sun broke through the clouds at sunset and shined into my cab on the way to the pier. Then there were pink skies of perfectly orb like cotton balls of clouds. Then a four hour boat trip whose open bar closed after an hour. I don't want to be a drag but I was sort of over it.
Ooh look what was in front me me in line! If anything, going was worth it for some pictures of Amanda. Since everything you may wear from Patricia Field will fall apart, I was concerned that the boat wouldn't quite make it. We were comforted that there was an ample supply of trannies pumped and stuffed with silicone that we could definitely cling to as flotation devices if the damn thing sank!
This ass kissing pic is definitely the winner.
This made the trip worth it.
Later, while running to get the hell away from that awful boat, some cops on steed let me take a shot. I was JUST going to write an entry about a horse fantasy!
Can't take him anywhere.
Sorry Glen, but you snooze... you get photographed! I can't stand Mr.Black I don't think we should have gone. Nothing illustrated how barren and vacuous and hostile and sad going there was than my friend passed out all sweaty with a flickering glow wristband as Tobell VonCartier screeched "Happy Priiiiiide" in a cracked voice over a microphone with feedback while people pushed and sneered at each other in the crowd. Mr.Black. Don't go there it's horrid.
