Took Grindr off the iPhone. What was I thinking? Funny ha-ha.
A theme of my writing has always been hiding in plain sight. He or she who shows off the most is the least likely to be remembered and therefor safe from tangible scrutiny. As other writers do, I use my tools of observation to manipulate. And unlike life in the real time 9-to-5 abyss where not everyone has an agenda (I’m assuming) my peeps always have a plan and a path. I prefer the diabolical types. They’re more fun.
A friend and I made it through Times Square (meh!) to go to the AMC theater on 42nd Street last night. I don’t need to expound on how bad the movie was because, with very few exceptions, movies nowadays are corporate, trite, and downright offensive to anyone with taste (yeah that’s me). Bruce Willis needs money I guess. So as we’re walking into the theater to ascend the nine escalator flights to the non-Transformers floor at the top I notice a homeless guy with a sign, thankfully no dog, and the most beautiful male model hair, he even had that straight line part that showed just enough skalp. Said homeless dude had his head bowed down and was in the exact same position when we came out of the building two long hours later. The half-empty-glass side of me for a moment thought he might not be real but some realist art piece about how hot guys can be homeless too. But he was real. Ran a hand through perfect hair as we walked by. I feel for anyone sitting on the street with no place to live. Could be me. Could be you. Full disclosure, I feel much worse when said homeless person has a dog. But this stems from losing my beloved dog Nash to Cancer last September. The most amount of tears I’ve shed in 47 years. Life really is in the moment. I didn’t give hot homeless guy any money. I only have two bills in the Coach wallet I hate (it’s got a Castro Street Fair 2014 sticker stuck to the inside), a $2 bill and a $50. My earning hasn’t been strong lately. If I could only be 21 again I’d be able to be a whore. But it’s too late for that. Dilemmas in the moment.
Word of the day is “sprayathon” as pertaining to rich Instagram kids types who douse each other with expensive champagne as a form of sport and/or social commentary on the succeeding of excess as hot homeless guys don’t eat for days. NY Post Page 6 says 31 year old hedge fund dude rented a $20M house in Bridgehampton on Air B&B (fucking waste of money that site) for an animal charity fundraiser but instead had a sprayathon party with drunk bikini chicks and gun-toting midgets. Thought you got shamed for saying midget nowadays. Hundreds showed up, chaos ensued, and over a million dollars in damages. At least that’s what the owner of the house is suing hedge fund bro for. “We were deceived by Wall Street.” I cringe at all that champagne going to waste on temp titties. I used to LOVE champagne. Could drink two bottles myself and then start the real drinking. But as fucked up as I always was, a stumbling mess of wasted youth zig-zagging down runways and alleys, I’m sure I never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever (one too many?) SPILLED a drop! Sick Sad World.