his partner’s name is chest rockwell
queens: slowly winning my heart or just destroying the conceptual space where other things go. either way everybody wins. i need to stop drinking so much seltzer water.
product review: xyliwhite cinnamon toothpaste: it is like cleaning your teeth with a combination of chewed up donuts and hi-quality child-safe sand. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.
flesh-colored undergarments
some shit about the nature of desire. so i completed** my move* to NY with the help of southwest airlines and the good people of islip township, long island.
fuck around long enough with the metrics you use to make sure you’re getting something out of your life. if any of them go past 75% positive, that last 25% is kind of a warning track beyond which you become a bad person.
dude’s haircuts: i recommend sergio’s barbershop at 45 1st avenue. get 9 haircuts and the tenth is on big S. i listened to two guys racebait each other in a jovial way as one cut the others hair. mind diamond of choice from their battle: “i’m not even going to charge you extra even though i had to shave around your syphilis lip.”
the rest of it wasn’t as creative.
there are a lot of necks in this city; i have to figure out which ones to focus on snapping.
** by which i mean, did not complete even like 10%
* i moved in the sense that my body moved
breadfruit
top 10 at 10 a.m. for last day of work/last business day in the HPK cosmopolis
1) no more mustache
2) dutch soccer: fuck these guys. fuck the dutch. nobody ever wants to pick on the dutch. i’m ready. stop being neoliberal/secretly nazis/genetically predisposed to hotness.
3) silver/turquoise jewelry for men
4) feline mad cow disease: need to research
5)
6) new glasses
living in god’s grace
(interior of tiki bar)
[CONDOR gets drink splashed on him by trashy blond in a cocktail dress. squeegees daiquiri out of his beady eyes with tip of wing. turns to bartender, who is just a burly dude who you only ever see the back of who occasionally nods in a sober but stupid way]
CONDOR: so i don’t get it. i do not. get. it. if everybody walks around in high heels and a shimmery, not-really-there dress, they just look like a cheap whore. and it’s not even like, the kind of people who you expect to bio-mimic prostitutes, such as college girls and like middle-aged ladies gunning for dude’s attention. it’s everyone. school children. grandmothers. on the other hand, i’d be complaining if everybody wore monochromatic t-shirts and cargo shorts too.
DESK (tipped end up leaning against the bar, having a iced glass of lemon pledge): well, i don’t really understand what the fuck you’re even complaining abotu at this point. i mean, yes, in the blocking that girl threw a drink on you, but you didn’t actually make some kind of untoward advance towards here. the drink, as far as i can tell, was thrown on you to symbolize a kind of autodidactic frustration you feel towards the opposite sex…
CONDOR: why don’t you autofuck yourself
DESK (unbowed): because you want to be married, to a thick-ish but like genetically admirable individual, preferable one with interesting hair and basically like your personality with all of the defects blanched from it by the sun of familial love
CONDOR: ok ok ok ok ok don’t get mean
DESK (not listening): but you also want to see yourself in the mirror as some kind of weird errol flynn dude, but that’s not you, so basically it’s like, how is anybody else going to put up with your shit if you can’t?
CONDOR: stop trying to traduce my lifestyle issues into several-sentence rants
DESK: no
their friday night shit be at sears
doing some self-inventory in the face of impending lifestyle changez. first up: upper lip hair, check.
my new shit for the deuce K ocho is ‘fuck regret as a concept’ but i don’t want to let this get out of hand or become some kind of crazy excuse for perjuring myself. i see myself in the mirror and notice that i have acquired A) a weird, gnomic possible-to-interpret-as-ironic tattoo B) a mustache, which is probably ironic, although i can’t personally tell because i can’t, like, urge my facial hair generators to do things in a contrarian or insincere way.
side note: I am going to murder death kill the guy next to me at this coffee shop. he’s speaking in falsetto, rapid-fire frat boy patois to some compatriot about what happened at a bar the other night. if you see an abercrombieish pan ethnic guy on the 3100 block of north clark with his face ripped off and stuffed up his own ass: i did that.
knee deep in the scholarly publishing game
a morsel of fake updike:
The space between the bottom of her eye and the beginning of her cheek had a martial clompiness to it. Incan. like a woven lace network of tribute and coprosperity. There was no ethnic majority there; only a loose familial air of blue blood speckled with peon heartiness.
show and tell: i did a thing.
