Dot Dot Dot

K.I.S.S. A sorta-kinda acronym for keep it simple stupid, or in my case, keep it subtle Skippy. Doesn’t make sense?  How can I keep it simple when everyone else tells me how complicated it is? Whatever “it” is. The never ending cerebral spectrum of momentary decision making and contemplation of moral principles versus objects of desire?  This isn’t really keeping it simple. I’ve been enlightened in my constant quest for life’s most bona fide version of authentic meaning after my tumultuous breakup with Misters Jack Daniels and Jim Beam. Keeping it simple, whether stupid or non-stupid, is just staying out of my own way, like those unfortunate horses that cart fat tourists around Central Park, the blinders keep them from being too bothered with the societal carnage going on around them. Just go. One foot in front of the other, etc.  This outlook is in the family of the #zerofucks, but more the California take-it-easy branch of the tree, the one that had less than zero ____’s to give in the first place. Stay with me Lola.

Yesterday a friend and I were in the West Village and it was about 100 degrees outside, felt like 101 with at least that percentage of humidity, as if we were walking through a multi-winged Brownstone-laden oven with no escape from the heat other than the dreaded SUNDAY BRUNCH. Sunday brunch, if I don’t have to explain this, equates to the Mimosa/Bloody Mary fruity pebbles crowd who chug the all-you-can-drink cheap stuff as if the bus to rehab were leavin’ in the morning. When I couldn’t take the thick air on 7th Avenue anymore I dragged my friend into a Mexican bar/restaurant where over lunch I lost my hearing and any sense of empathy for drunken revelry. That’s right, I’ve become that guy; bordering on teetotalism because I see clearly what becomes of certain people when their loosened up liquefied fun impedes on the more civilized side of society. You’re just bitter cause you’ve driven your last Long Island Tea into a telephone pole with 12 easy steps to serenity.  Bitter, maybe, but more like… what’s the word? #mature. Yeah, that’s it. And then this happened…

We went into the Monster Bar where, at 47 with humidity-assaulted hair I was still the youngest and prettiest of all the Sunday afternoon clientele. Some were gathered around the piano singing Barry Manilow songs without microphones which my friend felt the need to get on video and promptly share on his Facebook so’s others could make catty comments on being in the wrong place at the right time. For some reason I thought Lady Bunny would be there for the start of her birthday celebration but being that it was still light outside I gave up after a long, long, long chorus of Copacabana and dragged myself away from all the lascivious stares to grab an Uber back to Chelsea. I photographed a very old and ugly 1980’s Rolls Royce sedan parked in front of the Monster Bar, its New Jersey license plates read: R Rolls. This was all after a boring weekend which I don’t have the heart to talk about. I admit for a moment I stared at a few of those cocktails on the piano and tried to remember what it felt like to be loose via high proof hooch. Perhaps one wouldn’t kill me…

But alas I headed back to the temporary overpriced rental and almost finished the weekend binge watch of Billions. One more to go. Still sober and bitter and mature. But I’m pluggin’ away at that thing I do, keepin’ it simple and hoverin’ just above all the #basicness.

Three points to make…

  1. I need to get laid more.
  2. I need to observe less.
  3. I need to remind myself to live in the moment, because it’s the only thing I can count on anymore.

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