I do my cruising now in a virtual world, as in, I have pretty much surrendered on the whole “real people” thing and accepted that I’m going to live in the books I write and read … so I stay in touch with the world (such as it is – and that’s not such – or much) via my computer during ingestion of my morning coffees. Yes. Multiples. COFFEES. And woe be to the person who tries to talk to me before – say, cup four or five which is a good thing to know before reading my morning Zeits, which, I am afraid, are a little snarkier than I would ideally like to be – as in, prior to coffee I am a suicidal, dark son of a fuckwad. (Following three images are from SICK PAGE art tumblr … follow here.)
My nephew said of me once – on a morning when I had had only one cup of coffee thus far and was irritated by a driver and started swearing profusely (although, of course, with great syntax and panache), “Does someone need more coffee, Uncle Charlie?” Yep. I’m old school. A two-fisted, heart-rate and health concerns be damned, coffee junkie. I am the Hemingway and Parker of coffee drinkers. Straight-up black. Re-heated all day long on a wood-stove to a muddy, acrid consistency if possible. All day. And I’m only on cup two now. I can’t even dress until having slammed down the first cup, cooled with ice to a gulpable temperature, after which, cup two can be a bit warmer and thus savored. Here goes . . .
- Honestly, you can’t find someone on CraigsList for free? I’m not paying for blowjobs when there are books to be bought. But, BoyCulture (CLICK HERE) led me to this story on OMG BLOG (CLICK HERE) about prostitution in Canada.
I read Jeremiah’s Vanishing New York blog (CLICK HERE) – but not too often – because I can’t bear seeing the evidence that the New York of my youth has been decimated and the city turned more and more into a strip-mall of storefronts owned by multi-nationals. I also have the sneaking suspicion that people have been feeling this way for generations; everyone bemoans the loss of the way things were in the good old days, and – truth is – the good old days meant I couldn’t marry my boyfriend and the cops were bashing my bros at Stonewall . . . so, change is, I guess, good . . . but not always. And what Marriott did to the Algonquin Lobby (which I’ll be writing about in the continuation of my New York Chronicles – but you can read PART 1 (CLICK HERE) right now and PART 2 (CLICK HERE) -)- is INEXCUSABLE as is the loss of Colony Records which happened because, as recorded by Jeremiah: Colony Records: 60 years in same location closed when the new landlord, Stonehenge Properties, quintupled the rent to $5 million per month. Wow and holy fuck. I couldn’t bring myself to get anywhere near it while I was there this time.
New York City isn’t what it was … but, honestly, it never WAS what it WAS. It was just a place, a symbol I – and billions of others – made up. Nothing is what it is, even though I say – almost every day – “it is what it is” – but, in fact, we all make everything up by filtering and interpreting and languaging the energy of reality into our own narrative . . . no two of which are alike. It isn’t so much that the emperor has no clothes, it’s that there is NO EMPEROR at all – only the clothes – fuck it, it’s Friday.