“Retro” is a popular air-quote abstraction of what seems like a self-explanatory word that sums up how many probably feel with about two more days of 2016 to endure. Why look forward when I can look backward? At least I know what I’ll be getting, right? The news cycle reminds me of Bill Murray waking up to Sonny and Cher in “Groundhog Day.” Yeah, we know, the world sucks, news at 11, 11:01, 11:02…

Yesterday I wrote about how I felt for Debbie Reynolds when her daughter Carrie Fisher died.  Then of course, Debbie herself couldn’t bear the grief and died yesterday at the tender age of 84, which, to reinterate my sentiments from yesterday, is sorta kinda like late middle age now.  Betty White is no doubt unaffectedly playing with her dogs and singing the St. Olaf fight song over a large triple Jack Daniels as a hunky 25 year-old houseboy dusts her mantle in a jockstrap. R.I.P. Debbie. You came full-circle. You were funny and entertaining and one of the original unapologetic fag hags who held AIDS fundraisers long before it was fashionable. I hope they bury her in sequins with a slit up the skirt as she seemed to prefer. And although I’m kayaking down the denial river of heaven-is-for-those-who-believe-in-magic-and-miracles, I’ll take a few brain cells out of commission and hope Carrie and Debbie can now finally sit down together and not think about humanity or mental illness or Liz Taylor anymore.

So, retrogression, yeah, sounds more and more like today’s diagnosis of choice. My mood-board Tumblr seems to be be calling for a lot of old photos lately. More so than usual anyway. There’s a safe-place contentment in imagination brought on by objects of desire that are long out of reach.  As I write this I am looking out at the rainy cold grey abyss of Manhattan with a bit of a pharmecutical buzz (prescription!) and no beard (I shaved for my oral surgery) feeling like I should be in Florida on the beach making fun of the Quebec degenerates and seeing my favorite Starbucks barista Alejandro in Ft Lauderdale (swoon!). Alas, the lawyers tell me I’ll have to travel back to Ft Lauderdale soon for depositions in an ongoing lawsuit in which I am a plaintiff. Fuck it, I could use a bit of a tan, right? Booking an oceanfront suite…

Looking backwards is a byproduct of getting older. Ever wonder why people in their forties are the most vocal about the uncertainty of mortality? It’s that too-old-to-be-young and too-young-to-be-old thing I’m sure I’ve discussed before. Goldie Locks would say we’re the porridge that’s just right, but that doesn’t alleviate the mixture of fear and obscure dread that plagues us Gen-X’ers who can’t hang cohesively with the millenials but still feel schooled by the Baby Boomers. What, are we supposed to just fuck each other??? What fun is that? That’s just another cycle of sewing-circle agita and mirror-image realism that none of us wants or needs. The solution is to fuck the millennials (date?) and keep half-listening to the boomers, at least to hold on to some modicum of youth. Sounds like a nice slice of depraved half-measures cake made with all the good bad stuff we know is bad but tastes so good. Denial, with a side of zero fucks. Yeah, I’ll take it.

I think I might be a little too swayed today by my friend Oxycondone (prescription!) so I’ll sign off with this little nugget of vaseline-tinted glory:




2016? Fuckoff

Yesterday I came out of emergency oral surgery (roll your eyes I’ll wait) with a swollen face and jet lagged from a whirlwind in London to the news that author and actress Carrie Fisher, who’d been hospitalized for four days following a heart attack, had died at age 60. Ms. Fisher the writer came up with the great line: “Instant gratification takes too long.” Any friend or even acquaintance of “Bill” can relate. My best friend and fellow writer in high school gave me a signed copy of Ms. Fisher’s novel “Postcards from the Edge” (he signed it) with the quip: “here’s your postcard, kiss kiss.”  All the headlines of course included the Princess Leia moniker and metal bikini photo from Return of the Jedi. At first I felt bad for Debbie Reynolds, Ms. Fisher’s old school movie star mother, because no matter what, it’s gotta suck to have your child die before you. Makes one wonder about the notion of the God of anyone’s understanding. But then I got to feeling bad for Ms. Fisher herself, a writer whose talent I liked and appreciated, a human being/doing who, although head-started with no doubt some bit of nepotism in life, kept on despite addiction and mental illness and slings and arrows and metal bikinis. Dare I use the word SURVIVOR here without yet another eye roll and a snicker from the George Lucas peanut butter gallery. In the acclaimed Warren Beatty movie “Shampoo” in 1975 Ms. Fisher plays a spoiled Beverly Hills rich bitch who hates her mother and is ready to participate in Mister Beatty’s mental seduction. This is likely more true to life than the notion of the word SURVIVOR. But we’re all survivors in one way or another. Age 60 is not old anymore, it’s almost like middle age, which makes me still young, in my prime, ready for the next big thing. Ms. Fisher, like George Michael and Prince and many other pop culture idols who died in 2016, left too early. Or did they? The good ones are dying off in a Kim K/Taylor Swift world of basic mundane surface diluted fame and fortune with no real authentic white knuckled journey as a preface. Maybe they’re all better off. Zsa Zsa lasted till 99, and Paris Hilton is till going at thirtysometing (I assume). I know, the future seems as bleak as ever. So sayeth the SJW.

London is always glam, although getting gentrified in the sparkle of shiny Russian cash just like Manhattan is, perhaps not as old-school bohemian as it once was, but nothing really is anymore, so with the flow we must go and just insult-tweet about it later. In London I felt the need to remain strong and silent when the necessity for actual vocal interaction arose. The distain for Americans is everywhere, I can feel it, and while its not necessarily unwarranted, it feels a little unpatriotic of me to not combat the down-nose derision with some backhanded commentary on overbites and bad food and overcompensation for other obvious weaknesses. Yet our hosts were the self-effacement types, very easy to throw shade at and not feel the zinging sting of a haughty English insult too deeply, so I felt in safe hands in the back of their Range Rover. They even have one of those duck hunting country houses wrapped in tweed I love so much although I didn’t get to shoot anything whilst a weekend guest.  I am quick to remind everyone that I’m of Royal Irish descent and Irish people are at the top of the human echelon of cultural and prideful dominance, yes, even more than those tarty Brits. I never wait for a response to these annunciations, I just raise a glass and say cheers thanks a lot as my female alter ego Patsy Stone would. Enough said. I dressed myself as if a Men’s Vogue photographer were snapping me at all times, and it felt right, like I was amongst my peeps, the pride and prejudice coterie of couture junkies and scarf-wearing contrivers whose main objective in life is to stay as badass as we’ve always been.  But alas I was glad to get back to New York where the weather is kind of like anyone who dwells above 34th Street: languid and uninspiring.


R.I.P. everyone who’s dead: from Princess Leia to those whose lives didn’t seem to warrant NY Post headlines. As the year comes to an end I am re-thinking my vehement opposition to New Year’s resolutions. The small voice of Yoda keeps ringing in my ear: do or do not, there is no try. Right, keep it simple. Living in the moment means that tomorrow doesn’t exist and instant gratification already left the building. For the record I was never a Star Wars fan and I think George Michael’s “Freedom” video is one of the best ever made along with Madonna’s “Borderline” and… I can’t really think of any others since I haven’t watched MTV since 1986. Still, uniqueness, like a Naomi Campbell facial expression, remains unique, and every once in a while a new discovery furthers my faith in existence, for another day, the reluctant optimist, cheers, thanks a lot.

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.


The High Road

I remember seeing the 1978 Robert Altman film “A Wedding” in 1978 when I was 9 or 10 and thinking that adults acting like children seemed a little unrealistic, even for the movies. Adults were supposed to know better than to get themselves into farcical predicaments; these self-excavated holes of egomaniacal indulgence that were impossible to escape from without surrendering to the very fears that made these adults dig the trench of delusion in the first place. Right, I was a JOY to be around as a lad, just ask any of my teachers when they get out of rehab. Years later I watched the same movie again, this time as an adult whose realization that no one, men nor women, ever really grows up, thinking it was just OK in the scheme of Robert Altman Attention Deficit Theater. I always thought that Geraldine Chaplin and Natalie Merchant and Gloria Vanderbilt were somehow the same person in different reincarnations. Google it.

This just reminds me of the overall grey area real time dread everyone around me is predicting “for at least four years.” If I were at all an optimist I would feel a tickle of shame for giving zero f*cks about the state of government, but as an overgrown child who’s:

  1. seen it all
  2. unseen it all
  3. fucked it all
  4. snorted it all
  5. laughed  at it all
  6. cried for only some of it
  7. given up hope for most of it

I really can’t be held responsible for my lack of enthusiasm for the future. You’re right, it’s the world-weary gaze of exhausted opportunities passing by at a speed just fast enough to escape my half-hearted attempt at grabbing it by the _____ and bringing it back to where it once was. Well, I’m not sure if I was ever very optimistic. Looking back at my life I’ve always bathed uncomfortably in dread and rage, even as a lad with everything going for me including the future. “He’s smart but doesn’t apply himself” my teachers would say. “He’s prone to shortcuts and easy ways out.” I remember getting busted using a calculator on a math test when I was in the 4th Grade. I don’t remember what I said in the aftermath, nothing witty like “I’ll have to take off my pants to count to 21.” I always sought the easier way out of everything. Why go the hard way unless you’re into that kind of thing? Being back in New York reminds me of all these gems of retrospect. Looking back I wasn’t the worst kid Catholic Charities ever marked up and sold on. I never really destroyed anything unless you count the time I cracked the windshield of my adoptive mother’s Cadillac with a basketball. At least I was playing with a ball and not a doll @nohomo. Well, there was that other time I cut the power to all of East 71st Street for a few hours in the winter of 1976 but that was my little gay friend Ramie’s fault, I was just in the wrong power station at the wrong time. Still got blamed. Point is: things could have always been worse, which is my go-to philosophy of today. The end of the world could be any moment and I’m not spending my last moments of cognizance worried about four more years of:


Oh no, not me.

My adoptive father used to say my adoptive mother looked a little like Carol Burnett. I never thought she did, although the character Ms. Burnett played in the Altman film “A Wedding” kind of reminded me of many women of the seventies, upright citizens flowing in the Judy Blume wifey wonderland of appearances over appetites. Everyone else comes first… that’ll get this gal into heaven. Another reason why I’m grateful to be a man. I don’t have to care about anyone else’s feelings or what anyone else thinks about me or my lack of adult-like amenability to harmony or convention. Ladies, you keep yourselves locked up in the multi-way mirror of wasted opinions and platitudes. YOU hold the key to the lock on your own freedom. Fag Hags listen up: how many _____’s should you give about what other people think?


Ms. Burnett’s character in the Altman film, a married lady named Tulip, the mother of the bride, nearly succumbs to the extramarital longings of Daddy Bear Pat McCormick but sees the error of her sins before she’s even committed them and likely carries the guilt of what she didn’t even do for the rest of her life. This hits close to many women I am sure. That’s what’s really fucked up, feeling guilty for anticlimaxial lust only experienced within the corroded confines of the heart.

It’s been said before so this is nothing new, but the high road, that is the road least traveled and endured for purely selfish reasons, is not as structurally sound as it’s been in the past. Instant gratification via the ENTER button has all but washed away any hope of the high road being a journey of timely enlightenment and savory satisfaction at doing the right thing. Sometimes it’s just easier to tell the asshole in front of you to fuck off. The visceral momentary high that comes from verbal aggression has been, for me at least, much more gratifying that trudging the high road of happy, albeit unfinished destiny.

Tulip, wherever you are girl, forget about guilt. Much like voting in America, it’s a complete waste of time.








Who Do You Love?

Stranded on a desert island? Stuck in an elevator? Thrown together by circumstance like #work or #werk or community service? Who would be the ideal person on the other end of the scenario, if, say, said scenario were happening right now? Hmm, lemme think. I wouldn’t want someone in politics to make me feel as if I am not giving my all (I’m not) or someone from one of those narrow-minded red states (a die-hard racist homophobic #bro, etc.) because even though they would fuel my innate superiority my patience with #followers is as nil as with those who use a lot of #hashtags. Just kidding about the last part I love #hashtags even more than emoji’s that hint at sex like the banana and the three droplets of spray that look like water but most often get used as #ejaculate. Millennial celebrities? l can’t think of one that I wouldn’t end up punching in the the face after listening to them complain about how hard it is to fake self-depreciation. Movie stars? Ryan Gosling or Ryan Reynolds might make the cut, but I’m sure my disillusion would be imminent after a lot of awkward silence. I guess it’s too easy to say it would be some hot stranger I’d want to have sex with but no, it would come down to someone who wasn’t real, a false deity, a fantasy.

So that whole passage was too parenthetical for you? Pickin’ and choosin’ from the comfort of a keyboard?   I want what I want but let me break down exactly what I don’t want. Really, I’d rather just be by myself but since that’s out of the question it’s up to me to dreamily wander down the street of hyperbole via fake scenario with unrealistic possibilities, my favorite of all accouterments to the main course of life known as adulthood (paying bills).

Last night I caught a podcast from a while ago where fifty-something female author Laura Albert was interviewed about the after-effects of her outing as the teenage boy hustler writer J.T. Leroy who had quite a cult celebrity following before it all came crashing down as “the greatest literary hoax of all time.” Boo-fucking-hoo. OMG someone lied! What a terrible world it is when we put our faith in what we don’t know to be real. I’d read about this story years ago in The New York Times while I was living in San Francisco where Laura Albert was also living at the time and even paid to see one of the indie movies made from one of J.T. Leroy’s books, The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things. I only bring this up because it reminded me of the fallacy of hero worship, allowing a stranger’s words and actions to affect personal feelings and outcomes. Dare I say this affliction begets the #followers of today more than ever based on Intel from the complaint department at Twitterbook or whatever…  I never read any J.T. Leroy books because, based on what I’ve gathered through good literary criticism, the subject matter of child abuse and drug abuse and psychosexual diagnoses in teenage runaway culture is not what I’d consider a useful wasting of my brain cells. That’s right, I’ve been waiting forever to use the word psychosexual outside of Scruff and Grindr taglines, so what? After listening to Laura Albert talk about what lay beneath the paradigm of her thoughts-into-words and why she never took the celebrity worship thing seriously, am I more apt to read one of her novels if I ever find the time again? Maybe. Expanding the overdose of my brain cells. Going on a cerebral shootout with the discomfort of diversity as my main dealer.

I re-read some of my own stuff after listening to Laura Albert and concluded that I mask a lot of my feelings with wisenheimery and glittery innuendo meant to provoke both ire as well as thought. No shit, though, right? I’m an Irish man. Two things that don’t part easily with outward emotion. Every time I try to wear my heart of the sleeve of my own written words it seems very, very inauthentic, as if I am lying when all I’m really doing it spewing gut truths. Perhaps this is my own comfort zone, whether or not I’m comfortable there; the peripheral satire of life and its meaninglessness and need to continuously poke at its inconsistencies and imperfections. It comes down to basics. Like I said, I’m a man, Laura Albert is a woman, two different sets of what we see is appropriate when it comes to letting YOU know what’s inside of us.

Try as I have to read female authors I always have a hard time catching the essence of what they’re saying. I suppose Jennifer Saunders is one exception (although to my knowledge Miss Saunders hasn’t yet written a novel), because she writes with a witticism that is kind of burlesque in its debauchery, like Miss Saunders would know that if Auntie Mame were alive today, she (Auntie Mame) would know exactly whose face to slap and on whom she’d turn the other cheek whilst never letting her cigarette holder get too close to becoming extinct. Follow me? No? What I’m saying is a penis and a vagina both spray and pray in a different way. See, only someone with a penis would write something like that. But what about the trans community?

What about them? 

So, when I was in high school in the mid-eighties I had idols too, the writer Bret Easton Ellis, Keith Haring, Bono of U2, Andy Warhol, sometimes Madonna and Sean, and of course, Rob Lowe’s high top sneakers in St Elmo’s Fire. Rob Lowe is probably the handsomest person ever to walk this planet, even Marlon Brando circa 1953 got wood at the sight of Rob Lowe and his high top sneakers and sweaty saxophone.  So, aside from everyone I’ve mentioned, living, dead, irrelevant or just plain past their prime, I suppose I would choose Rob Lowe as Billy from the Roof in St Elmo’s Fire as the person I’d most like to be stranded on a desert island with, and not only because I’d have sex with him, but because I’m sure he still has some good stories to tell.




Contempt Prior To Investigation

“A revolution is a struggle to the death between the future and the past,” said Fidel Castro, who died almost two weeks ago at age 90, much to the delight of street-partying Miami residents who celebrated the death as they would a birth, a wedding, or a purchase of the latest German luxury car because those crazy Germans, they really know how to leave the right kind of skid marks.  “Why are we celebrating that someone died?” a younger Cuban person might ask his perennially righteous Mariel-era Grandmother.  At this point in the paragraph I put myself in a hypothetical raft circa 1980 with my seven kids, six aunts, five uncles, four cousins, three dogs, and two guys with dead eyes and sweaty rifles whose names no one really knows, empathizing/sympathizing with the plight of the disenfranchised (poor people) who feel or are told they have no other choice but to put themselves and their families at risk by making a stand against a government which doesn’t respect them. Yes, I’m leering over history from the shade of my white guy bubble. No, Tony Montana wasn’t an actual political refugee, he was a composite, a less-faceted visceral cinematic representation of the so-called criminal element that left Mariel Harbor in search of economic freedom on the really, really corrupt streets of Miami where the government officials drove 24K Gold German luxury cars and no one asked any questions. But I suppose a dictatorship isn’t a real government, not in the way Americans are taught that Government is Daddy who will take care of us when the choppy waters of life start the raft a rockin’, so Miami versus Cuba was probably seen as the lesser of two evils back in the day.  Still, Fidel had his supporters from the time he overthrew Batista in 1959 and through his ensuing totalitarian takeover of small Caribbean island where rich Americans used to wash their gambling cash. No, Fidel never sent me to prison or killed me or even called me a maricón.  Yes, the glamorous lore of Havana and its rum-scented roulette tables still gives wood to #cabinporn aficionados; so to some, Fidel will live on in history as the paradigmatic alpha-daddy many of us hold in virtual esteem.  Maybe Cuban pride isn’t much different than Irish pride. Stand or fall.  What frosts my tips is the celebration of death by those who seem to white-knuckle the slings and arrows of life so intensely. You can’t, just for one day, put aside your selfish convictions and quietly bow your head without a comment? You can’t? Why not? Ask yourself that question.

Hey man it’s tough being a purist, seeing EVERYTHING through the eyes of a laconic genius whose only taste is for 100 proof authenticity. I went with only a small bit of enthusiasm to Lincoln Center to see the Tom Ford movie Nocturnal Animals the other night with a friend who had no idea what he was in for. Tom Ford the Gucci-esque designer reminds me of my first boyfriend for some reason; handsome and bitchy and ridiculously well-dressed and a complete slave to style at any cost. Amy Adams is gorgeous with a smoky eye and a Veronica Lake blowout that covers just enough of her left eye to make one wonder what reaction she’s going to elicit from whomever she’s in the scene with. Jake Gyllenhaal seems to be constantly asking for acceptance like his whole career is a Sally Field Oscar speech. The sets are very Tom Ford as is the mood of repressed self-indulgence. Other than Amy Adams’ smoky eye scene and the opening credit reel of obese nude women floating in their own embracement as performance art, the only other thing I really remembered about Nocturnal Animals is the facial expression acting of Andrea Riseborough in a Siouxsie Sioux wig and Missus Roper couch dress emanating pure delight at being married to a rich gay ascot played by Michael Sheen who I think is kind of sexy with his average-guy versatility and perfect hair. I only say this because every time I see Andrea Riseborough on film I have to wonder what she looks like without a bad wig on. Perhaps she wouldn’t make such scene-stealing impressions without her bad wigs. Oh, and Michael Shannon playing a creepy guy, yeah, go for it, I’m there. Won’t win any awards other than for smoky eyes.  Art world people are fun to make fun of though, so serious, so unrealistic.

Not mentioned in this post: Donald Trump, Maria Schneider, butter, the gold moosehead atop my Christmas tree, gay conversion therapy, millennials, snowflakes, Che Guevara, Patsy Stone, #zerofucks, #outrage, and being a native New Yorker. What I want for Christmas? My own podcast, which seems to be the thing now, and I’m all about rollin’ with the trends. That’ll lead to a book deal, right?

In closing, contempt prior to and even long after investigation is a choice. Consider keeping your contempt to yourself for a while. Really, it would be in your best interest. You’ll thank me some day.



So Henry David Thoreau and George Carlin walk into a bar…

I didn’t vote for the first time since I was old enough to vote in 1988. Does that make me part of the problem? If it does, then explain exactly what the problem is. Too many people in the world. Too many opinions. Not enough space. Fuck Twitter. The inmates have fooled themselves into a hostile takeover of the asylum. What frightens me most is that I’ll actually, with whatever intervention of fate becomes me, live another twenty years. The hostility I have held tightly for 48 years has become just a snide apathy. Unlike all the overpaid reality whore pea brains trolling twitter today I never even thought of moving to Canada or Mexico or anywhere outside the country other than London. When I’ve traveled outside the U.S. I’ve always been glad to come back. I learned a while ago that I don’t have to approve of something to accept it. Being an adult means that with each passing second of lost youth I realize with extreme cognizance that I should take less and less and less of life seriously. Because it’s all bullshit. It’s all money and sex and opinions and bills. The sadness and disbelief that is spread across social media (even the mutherfucking New York Times!) like maneur makes me no more or less inclined to give a fuck. What walks and what talks? Nothing changes other than the apps on my iPhone. No one has the balls to start of revolution anyway. What if we all just didn’t pay our taxes anymore? Is the IRS equipped to put us all in jail? What if we all marched down 5th Avenue and chanted about being created equal? The penthouse windows would just close out the noise. I’m not a woman and I’m not black or Hispanic so I suppose I have less to be sad about today. All my theories about Trump and Hillary being in on it together from the beginning were surpassed by my genuine underestimation of the power of racism and mysogyny. But then I’m a white guy. I can blend. Yeah I’m gay but I’ve never thought of that as a disadvantage. For the most part I’ve always felt it made me more superior. What’ll change now? Just the general feeling of dispair and antagonism in the twitterverse complaint line. I’ll be at McSorely’s sucking on the cherry of my Shirley Temple and contemplating my next esoteric thought that will go completely unnoticed since I deleted my twitter. Another day older and deeper in doubt. Cheers. Good luck. You’re fired.