Fists across America

“Those who cannot understand how to put their thoughts on ice should not enter into the heat of debate,” said my German Daddy Friedrich Nietzsche. IOW if one is not contributing to the solution than one is grandstanding for the sake of his fragile ego and empty applause. We all know who I’m talking about, right? Anyone else tired of this show? Counting the days until November 8? Then it’s all over, right? We can all turn the TV’s back on and watch with both eyes, right? Bitch, please. The cultural apocalypse is yesterday’s news. I wish I could say I wish I had something to say that wasn’t so apathetic but I really don’t wish that I wished I had a comment about anything. What else do I have other than my words, my thoughts, and my undeserved inherited fortune? Like Whitney sang: “I have nothing.” My comments, although half-hardheartedly satirical, remind me that I’m still amongst the living. 31 more days of pussy tapes and liberal media spin on the hashtag #sadstate of big government. This will be the first election I will not vote in since I started voting and all I can hear in the abyss of my tattered brain is the New York voice of George Carlin saying something about no one even noticing the revolution the day after it occurred. Hashtag #blameyourself. Either way, y’all still lose.

Yesterday I was strolling in SoHo and came across a little coffee shop with two wooden chairs perched in front on the sidewalk. Both chairs were empty but rather cool in a #cabinporn kind of rustic hand-made authenticity; made me think of simple two-party conversations without agendas. The best ones I’ve ever had have been one-on-one. Add another opinion and it all turns to shit. But there are so few people I’ve ever met that I actually liked enough to care about what they said. Tolerated plenty, couldn’t stand most, but actually liked? Could have a long conversation with? Respected their opinion? Uhh, very few, and most of them women or men who act like women. I suppose that’s one of the great mysteries of life, someone to talk with unabashedly.  The one common denominator in all of my good one-on-one conversations is my rare propensity for dropping the filter on my honesty. I can be rather blunt, I know, and somewhat offensive in a Truman Capote draggy tone, but nonetheless unapologetic and sincere in my high self-esteem and pure acceptance of all compliments. I would talk a lot with my old-school die-hard New Yorker Grandmother about my life observations and she would tell me my Irish pride kept me from seeing other sides of the story and I always gave a two-thumbs up seal of “absolutely correct” agreement with a smile and a sip.  I snapped a pic of the two chairs for my IG with the hashtag #sidewalktalk, an ode to a Jellybean/Madonna song of long-lost 80’s nostalgia I used to dance to.

I’m reading a lot in Curbed (everyone there is named Zoe or Marissa and likely lives in Queens) about how Manhattan is now a big shopping mall filled with Russians and Hedge Fund Bro’s as old New Yorker’s get squeezed out by skyrocketing costs of mere existence. I have to call bullshit on this. Are you sitting down? I’m about to open up a can of uplifting transcendental support for a more positive universe. New York is as amazing as is ever was, it will not change because of how much it cost to shop here or how much dirty cash is pushed from client to client or how little sidewalk space there is. The aggravation of the traffic and the dirt is what makes New York so perfect in its pride in imperfection. Can L.A. say that? Nope. Whining millennials and their fucking inability to afford what they think is important should really just SHUT THE FUCK UP! Go back to Cleveland or Thousand Oakes. Don’t fuck with NYC or I’ll call Redhook as there’s plenty still there who will do me some favors.

Did I mention the October chill has me dressing like a real writer again? I wore my new Paul Smith shoes yesterday because they were ridiculously expensive. Today my feet are paying the price but I wear pain with Irish pride like Peaky Blinders. Keep meaning to catch Lady Bunny’s one-ho show at The Stonewall but I’ve been falling asleep at 9 p.m. lately. Gotta make a change to the routine.

Going to try and likely fail to write in this blog much more often, whether it’s good or semi-good and unedited I’ll do my best and worst to deliver the goods for the inevitable book deal. I’ll get more salacious I promise as the only thing that sells more than sex is backhanded narcissism and self-promotion. And I’ll end with a nod to the ladies and few gents whose opinions and thoughts are respected and taken seriously because without you I’m nothing. Cheers Sweetie, love your hair, hope you win.

mame

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