My life is one series of ironic events after another. I sleep every night because it is trendy, but I don't actually rest. Resting is sincerity and honesty, it's a thing that grounds us to the core of being human and refreshes the senses, which obscure minds have ruled out as "completely and totally bullshit". And so, even if my eyes are squeezed shut and my chest heaves gently with the rolling march of involuntary function, I am not at rest. I am simply in a stage of incoherence. Every morning I wake up and drink water, and I smile while doing so, as the central idea of drinking water is done to alleviate a sincere bodily need: thirst. I do so out of artistic and authorial humor. The idea of thirst is is not so much manufactured as it is something to be overcome through the power of irony. My day progresses in this fashion, while I contemplate how tomorrow I can further overcome my own sense of irony and the profound lack of genuine interests in my own life.
My life is one series of ironic events after another. I sleep every night because it is trendy, but I don't actually rest. Resting is sincerity and honesty, it's a thing that grounds us to the core of being human and refreshes the senses, which obscure minds have ruled out as "completely and totally bullshit". And so, even if my eyes are squeezed shut and my chest heaves gently with the rolling march of involuntary function, I am not at rest. I am simply in a stage of incoherence. Every morning I wake up and drink water, and I smile while doing so, as the central idea of drinking water is done to alleviate a sincere bodily need: thirst. I do so out of artistic and authorial humor. The idea of thirst is is not so much manufactured as it is something to be overcome through the power of irony. My day progresses in this fashion, while I contemplate how tomorrow I can further overcome my own sense of irony and the profound lack of genuine interests in my own life.
>>4271377
nice dubs
My life is one series of ironic events after another. I sleep every night because it is trendy, but I don't actually rest. Resting is sincerity and honesty, it's a thing that grounds us to the core of being human and refreshes the senses, which obscure minds have ruled out as "completely and totally bullshit". And so, even if my eyes are squeezed shut and my chest heaves gently with the rolling march of involuntary function, I am not at rest. I am simply in a stage of incoherence. Every morning I wake up and drink water, and I smile while doing so, as the central idea of drinking water is done to alleviate a sincere bodily need: thirst. I do so out of artistic and authorial humor. The idea of thirst is is not so much manufactured as it is something to be overcome through the power of irony. My day progresses in this fashion, while I contemplate how tomorrow I can further overcome my own sense of irony and the profound lack of genuine interests in my own life.
My life is one series of ironic events after another. I sleep every night because it is trendy, but I don't actually rest. Resting is sincerity and honesty, it's a thing that grounds us to the core of being human and refreshes the senses, which obscure minds have ruled out as "completely and totally bullshit". And so, even if my eyes are squeezed shut and my chest heaves gently with the rolling march of involuntary function, I am not at rest. I am simply in a stage of incoherence. Every morning I wake up and drink water, and I smile while doing so, as the central idea of drinking water is done to alleviate a sincere bodily need: thirst. I do so out of artistic and authorial humor. The idea of thirst is is not so much manufactured as it is something to be overcome through the power of irony. My day progresses in this fashion, while I contemplate how tomorrow I can further overcome my own sense of irony and the profound lack of genuine interests in my own life.
>>4271377
and it’s midafternoon and I find myse
lf standing at a phone booth on a corner
somewhere downtown, I don’t know wher
e, but I’m sweaty and a pounding migraine
thumps dully in my head and I’m experiencin
g a major-league anxiety attack, searching
my pockets for Valium, Xanax, a leftover Halc
ion, anything, and all I find are three faded
Nuprin in a Gucci pillbox, so I pop all thr
ee into my mouth and swa
llow them down with a
Diet Pepsi and I couldn’t tell you where it ca
me from if my life depended on it. I’ve
forgotten who I had lunch with ea
rlier and, even more important,
where.
Was it Robert
Ailes at Beats? Or was it Todd Hendricks at
Ursula’s, the new Philip Duncan Holmes
bistro in Tribeca? Or was it Ricky Worrall and
were we at December’s? Or would it have
been Kevin Weber at Contra in NoHo? Did
I order the partridge sandwich on brioche
with green tomatoes, or a big plate
of endive with clam sauce? “Oh god,
I can’t
remember
,” I moan, my clothes—a linen and silk
sport coat, a cotton shirt, pleated linen
khald trousers, all by Matsuda,
a silk tie with a Matsuda insignia, with a belt from Coach
Leatherware—drenched with swea
t, and I take off the jacket
and wipe my face with it.
The phone keeps ringing but I don’t know who I’
ve called and I just stand on the corner,
Ray-Bans balanced on my forehead at what
feels like an odd, crooked angle, and then I
hear a faint familiar sound coming through the wires—Jean’s soft voice competing with
the endless gridlock stuck on Broadway.
The Patty Winters Show
this morning was
Aspirin: Can It Save Your
Life? “Jean?” I cry out. “Hello?
Jean?
” “Patrick? Is that you?”
she calls back. “
Hello?
” “
Jean,
I need
help
My life is one series of ironic events after another. I sleep every night because it is trendy, but I don't actually rest. Resting is sincerity and honesty, it's a thing that grounds us to the core of being human and refreshes the senses, which obscure minds have ruled out as "completely and totally bullshit". And so, even if my eyes are squeezed shut and my chest heaves gently with the rolling march of involuntary function, I am not at rest. I am simply in a stage of incoherence. Every morning I wake up and drink water, and I smile while doing so, as the central idea of drinking water is done to alleviate a sincere bodily need: thirst. I do so out of artistic and authorial humor. The idea of thirst is is not so much manufactured as it is something to be overcome through the power of irony. My day progresses in this fashion, while I contemplate how tomorrow I can further overcome my own sense of irony and the profound lack of genuine interests in my own life.
>>4271387
,” I shout. “Patrick?” “What?” “Jesse Forrest
called,” Jean says. “He has a reservation at
Melrose tonight at eight, and Ted Madison
and Jamie Conway want to meet you for drinks
at Harry’s. Patrick?” Jean asks. “Where
are you?” “Jean?” I sigh, wiping my nose.
“I’m not—” “Oh,
and Todd Lauder called,”
Jean says, “no, I mean Chris—oh no, it
was Todd Lauder. Yeah, Todd Lauder.” “Oh
god,” I moan, loosening my ti
e, the August sun beating down
on me, “what do you say,
you dumb bitch?” “Not
Bice,
Patrick. The reservation is at
Melrose.
Not Bice.” “What am
I
doing
?” I cry out. “Where are y
ou?” and then, “Patrick? What
’s wrong?” “I’m not going
to make it, Jean,” I say, then choke out, “t
o the office this afternoon.” “Why?” She
sounds depressed or maybe it’s just simple
confusion. “Just... say... no...,”
>>4271392
I scream.
“What is it, Patrick? Are you all right?
” she asks. “Stop sounding so fucking... sad.
Jesus
,” I shout. “Patrick I’m sorry. I mean I m
eant to say just say no, but—” I hang up on
her and lunge away from the phone booth
and the Walkman around my neck suddenly
feels like a boulder strapped around my throat
(and the sounds blaring from it—early
Dizzy Gillespie—deeply irritate) and I have to
throw the Walkman, a cheap one, into the
nearest trash can I stumble into and then I h
ang on to the rim of the can, breathing
heavily, the cheap Matsuda jacket tied around my
waist, staring at
the still-functioning
Walkman, the sun melting the mousse on my head and it mingles with the sweat
pouring down my face and I can taste it when I
lick my lips and it starts tasting good and
I’m suddenly ravenous and I run my hand through
my hair and lick greedily at the palm
while moving up Broadway, ignoring the old ladi
es passing out fliers, past jeans stores,
music blasting from inside, pouring out ont
o the streets, people’s movements matching
the beat of the s
ong, a Madonna single, Madonna crying out, “
life is a mystery, everyone
must stand alone...
,” bike messengers whiz by and I’m
standing on a corner scowling at
them, but people pass, oblivious, no one pays
attention, they don’t even pretend to
not
pay attention, and this fact sobers me
up long enough that I walk toward a nearby
Conran’s to buy a teapot, but just when I a
ssume my normalcy has returned and I’m all
straightened out, my stomach tightens and the
cramps are so intens
e that I hobble into
the nearest doorway and clutch my waist, doubling
over with pain, and as suddenly as it
appears it fades long enough for me to stand
up straight and rush into the next
hardware store I come across, and once insi
de I buy a set of butcher knives, an ax, a
bottle of hydrochloric acid, and
then, at the pet store down
>>4271395
the block, a Habitrail and two
white rats that I plan to torture with the kn
ives and acid, but somewhere, later in the
afternoon, I leave the package with the rats in
it at the Pottery Ba
rn while shopping for
candles or did I finally buy the teapot?
Now I’m lunging up Lafayette, sweating and
moaning and pushing people out of my way, f
oam pouring out of my mouth, stomach
contracting with horrendous abdominal cramp
s—they might be caused by the steroids
but that’s doubtful—and I calm
myself down enough to walk into a Gristede’s, rush up
and down the aisles and shoplift a canned ham that
I calmly walk out
of the store with,
hidden under the Matsuda jacket,
and down the block, where I tr
y to hide in the lobby of
the American Felt Building,
breaking the tin open with my keys, ignoring the doorman,
who at first seems to recognize me, then, afte
r I start stuffing handfuls of the ham into
my mouth, scooping the lukewarm pink meat
out of the can, getti
ng it stuck beneath my
nails, threatens to call the police. I’m outta
there, outside, throwing up all the ham,
leaning against a poster for
Les Misérables
at a bus stop and I kiss the drawing of
Eponine’s lovely face, her lips, leaving br
own streaks of bile smeared across her soft,
unassuming face and the word DYKE scrawled beneath it. Loosening my suspenders,
ignoring beggars, beggars ignori
ng me, sweat-drenched, delirious, I find myself back
downtown in Tower Records and I compose m
yself, muttering over
and over to no one,
“I’ve gotta return my videotapes, I’ve gotta
return my videotapes,” and I buy two copies
of my favorite compact disc, Bruce Willis,
The Return of Bruno,
and then I’m stuck in the
revolving door for five full spins and I trip
out onto the street, bumping into Charles
Murphy from Kidder Peabody or it could
be Bruce Barker from Morgan Stanley,
whoever,
and he says “Hey, Kinsley” and I belch into
Oh shit, I'm sorry. The wrong door
>>4271403
his face, my eyes rolling back into
my head, greenish bile dripping in strings from my bared fangs, and he suggests,
unfazed, “See you at Fluties, okay? Severt
too?” I screech and while backing away I
bump into a fruit stand at a Korean deli,
collapsing stacks of apples and oranges and
lemons, that go rolling onto the sidewalk, over the curb and in
to the street where they’re
splattered by cabs and cars and buses and tr
ucks and I’m apologizing, delirious, offering
a screaming Korean my platinum AmEx
accidentally, then a twenty, which he
immediately takes, but still he grabs me by t
he lapels of the stained, wrinkled jacket I’ve
forced myself back into and when I look up into his slanty-eyed round face he suddenly
bursts into the chorus of Lou
Christie’s “Lightnin’ Stri
kes.” I pull away, horrified,
stumbling uptown, toward home, but people,
places, stores keep interrupting me, a
drug, dealer on Thirteenth Street
who offers me crack and b
lindly I wave a fifty at him
and he says “Oh, man” gratefully and shakes
my hand, pressing five vials into my palm
which I proceed to
eat whole
and the crack dealer stares
at me, trying to mask his deep
disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab hi
m by the neck and croak out, my breath
reeking, “
The best engine is in the BMW 750iL
,” and then I move on to a phone booth,
where I babble gibberish at the o
perator until I finally spit out my credit card number and
then I’m speaking to the front office of Xclusive, where I cancel a massage appointment
that I never made. I’m able to
compose myself by simply star
ing at my feet, actually at
the A. Testoni loafers, kicking pigeons aside, and without even notici
ng, I enter a shabby
delicatessen on Second Avenue and I’m still c
onfused, mixed up, sweaty, and I walk
over to a short, fat Jewish wo
man, old and hideously dressed.
“Listen,” I say. “I have a
>>4271405
reservation. Bateman. Where’s the maître
d? I know Jackie Mason,” and she sighs, “I
can seat you. Don’t need a reservation,” as
she reaches for a menu. She leads me to a
horrible table in back near the rest rooms
and I grab the menu away
from her and rush
to a booth up front and I’m appalled by t
he cheapness of the f
ood—“Is this a goddamn
joke?”—and sensing a waitress is near I order
without looking up. “A cheeseburger. I’d
like a cheeseburger and I’d like it medium rare.”
“I’m sorry, sir,”
the waitress says. “No
cheese. Kosher,” and I have no idea what the
fuck she’s talking about and I say, “Fine.
A
kosher
burger but
with cheese,
Monterey Jack perhap
s, and—oh god,” I moan,
sensing more cramps coming on.
“No cheese, sir,” she says. “
Kosher...
” “Oh god, is
this a
nightmare,
you fucking
Jew
?” I mutter, and then, “
Cottage cheese?
Just
bring it
?”
“I’ll get the manager,” s
he says. “Whatever. But bring me
a beverage in the meanwhile,”
I hiss. “Yes?” she asks. “A... vanilla
... milk shake...” “No milk shakes.
Kosher
,” she
says, then, “I’ll get
the manager.” “No,
wait
.” “Mister I’ll get the
manager.” “What in the
fuck is going on?” I ask, seething, my plat
inum AmEx already slapped on the greasy
table. “No milk shake.
Kosher
,” she says, thick-upped, just one
of billions of people who
have passed over this planet. “Then bring me a fucking... vanilla...
malted
!” I roar,
spraying spit all over my
open menu. She just stares. “
Extra thick
!” I add. She walks
away to get the manager and when I see hi
m approaching, a bald carbon copy of the
waitress, I get up and scream,
“Fuck yourself you retarded cocksucking kike,” and I run
out of the delicatessen and ont
o the street where this
>>4271404
BOYS NEXT DOOR
>>4271377
IT'S EBIN
where this...?
