14th to Broome
Sex is so odd," I think to myself, picturing my legs up in the air the night before and looking for a place to sit down in the Barnes and Noble off 14th, because I'm half hard from looking at the latest issue of XY Magazine. But the second floor is too crowded with mothers in DKNY and Jewish teenagers killing time between classes in liberal arts at NYU. So I hit the street and light up a cigarette with a match, because I find it much more earthy, and I start to step against the wind that's flowing unnaturally quickly between the buildings, like water channeled through a dam. My feet begin to ache as I remember GQ rule number 14:
Cordovan dress shoes are indispensable. Made from horsehide, they conform to your foot's shape and last for ages.
But I'm a member of PETA, and I can't decide which is more hip, so I just keep walking toward Lafayette, letting the hip just collide in my head. I reach the corner, and there's a blown up version of the Panic! At the Disco "record," and I can only think back far enough to remember the Glitter soundtrack being in the same place, a few years ago. I continue south, toward the Puck building, and the thought strikes me that I would have been able to see the top of the twin towers from here. It's strange that I hadn't thought about it until now. I always thought they were ugly, anyway, too boxy, too clean looking.
There are about twenty Justin Timberlake posters to my left, but the one nearest to me catches my eye, as if it's different than all the rest. I notice something on it, above his lips, below his nose. Upon closer inspection, I can't tell if someone's come on it or spit on it. I chuckle. "Bringing sexy back," I say out loud as three girls in Juicy Couture walk by, thinking I'm crazy. I am a little crazy, though. It happens in New York. I don't know if the city makes you crazy, or if you just have to be insane to live here. But we walk down the largest streets, alone most of the time, quietly waiting for our destination to arrive at our scurrying feet. We talk to ourselves for company, for interaction, and to make the muggers think, "Hey, that guy is psycho," and walk the other way. I realize that I feel sort of alone. Even with all the people around me, all the real people, the Justin Timberlake posters and the guy in the Gant ad with the blue, blue eyes and black, black hair are my real friends, my real company.
There are so many images, so many promises. Every corner, no, every slab of the sidewalk is a new message. This could be your life! or If this sweater were yours, you would be home now! I just simply don't know how much more I can take of the monotony of an ever changing array of visual stimulations. It's made me crazy. It's made me inhuman. I remember, after the eleventh - I refuse to call it September eleventh or, God forbid, 9-11, because it's just too hokey for me - every surface in the city was plastered with "missing" flyers. She worked on the fortieth floor of the south tower for an entertainment law firm. She has a loving husband and a three year old boy. We miss her terribly. Any information, please call… I should have been moved. Instead, my eyes would graze past the vast ocean of the pictures, the descriptions, gleaning only slight information like the cut of his suit or the color of her hair, until, like the sound of a trumpet, one would hit me. I would see the picture of someone beautiful, and my heart would break. Kevin Ellerman - 26 - 6'1" He was last seen leaving for work, ten minutes late as usual. Employed on the 53rd floor, North tower. His wife misses him very much, please call… I could picture him in the morning, his dress slacks on, no shoes, no socks. He would be in a tight Calvin Klein V-neck t-shirt, smiling as I hid his tie from him while begging him to please stay, please blow off work just this once. He'd run toward me, grab me around the waist, and kiss me with those red lips he had. My hand would run along his cheekbone and down past his strong jaw line. "I have to go to work," he'd say, pause, look to the left and the right, "I can't believe I stayed out all night."
"I can," I'd respond, leaning into him, kissing him again, pulling the ring off his finger. He would spin me around, bend me over into the bookcase, and…
He was dead, though. All the Kinko's in the world wouldn't bring him back.
So I continue down the road, thinking that Andy Warhol once walked down this very street. I think about art and music and about mastering those five meals that Details says every man should be able to cook. I entertain the notion of going to the Met or painting something or learning how to play the sitar, but all I really want is a Boca burger and a blowjob.
I put my cigarette out on the ground and let it stay there, another piece of pop art to join the broken dreams that make up the sparkles in the sidewalk. A homeless man looks up at me and mumbles something, asking for help. He doesn't want money. He doesn't want drugs. He just wants a chance. I could give him that chance. I could take him back to my bright, beautiful home, hovering on the third and fourth floors above the street like fog on a lake. I could give him a job, give him a purpose. Hell, if I gave him a shower and a makeover, he might even be pretty hot. Maybe this could be the love of my life, sitting right in front of me in squalor and misfortune. Maybe this is the one toad I have to kiss to fulfill a lifetime of angst. Maybe this is it.
But Taking Back Sunday is playing at Avalon, and I've got to hurry if I want to get all the way across town.
Cordovan dress shoes are indispensable. Made from horsehide, they conform to your foot's shape and last for ages.
But I'm a member of PETA, and I can't decide which is more hip, so I just keep walking toward Lafayette, letting the hip just collide in my head. I reach the corner, and there's a blown up version of the Panic! At the Disco "record," and I can only think back far enough to remember the Glitter soundtrack being in the same place, a few years ago. I continue south, toward the Puck building, and the thought strikes me that I would have been able to see the top of the twin towers from here. It's strange that I hadn't thought about it until now. I always thought they were ugly, anyway, too boxy, too clean looking.
There are about twenty Justin Timberlake posters to my left, but the one nearest to me catches my eye, as if it's different than all the rest. I notice something on it, above his lips, below his nose. Upon closer inspection, I can't tell if someone's come on it or spit on it. I chuckle. "Bringing sexy back," I say out loud as three girls in Juicy Couture walk by, thinking I'm crazy. I am a little crazy, though. It happens in New York. I don't know if the city makes you crazy, or if you just have to be insane to live here. But we walk down the largest streets, alone most of the time, quietly waiting for our destination to arrive at our scurrying feet. We talk to ourselves for company, for interaction, and to make the muggers think, "Hey, that guy is psycho," and walk the other way. I realize that I feel sort of alone. Even with all the people around me, all the real people, the Justin Timberlake posters and the guy in the Gant ad with the blue, blue eyes and black, black hair are my real friends, my real company.
There are so many images, so many promises. Every corner, no, every slab of the sidewalk is a new message. This could be your life! or If this sweater were yours, you would be home now! I just simply don't know how much more I can take of the monotony of an ever changing array of visual stimulations. It's made me crazy. It's made me inhuman. I remember, after the eleventh - I refuse to call it September eleventh or, God forbid, 9-11, because it's just too hokey for me - every surface in the city was plastered with "missing" flyers. She worked on the fortieth floor of the south tower for an entertainment law firm. She has a loving husband and a three year old boy. We miss her terribly. Any information, please call… I should have been moved. Instead, my eyes would graze past the vast ocean of the pictures, the descriptions, gleaning only slight information like the cut of his suit or the color of her hair, until, like the sound of a trumpet, one would hit me. I would see the picture of someone beautiful, and my heart would break. Kevin Ellerman - 26 - 6'1" He was last seen leaving for work, ten minutes late as usual. Employed on the 53rd floor, North tower. His wife misses him very much, please call… I could picture him in the morning, his dress slacks on, no shoes, no socks. He would be in a tight Calvin Klein V-neck t-shirt, smiling as I hid his tie from him while begging him to please stay, please blow off work just this once. He'd run toward me, grab me around the waist, and kiss me with those red lips he had. My hand would run along his cheekbone and down past his strong jaw line. "I have to go to work," he'd say, pause, look to the left and the right, "I can't believe I stayed out all night."
"I can," I'd respond, leaning into him, kissing him again, pulling the ring off his finger. He would spin me around, bend me over into the bookcase, and…
He was dead, though. All the Kinko's in the world wouldn't bring him back.
So I continue down the road, thinking that Andy Warhol once walked down this very street. I think about art and music and about mastering those five meals that Details says every man should be able to cook. I entertain the notion of going to the Met or painting something or learning how to play the sitar, but all I really want is a Boca burger and a blowjob.
I put my cigarette out on the ground and let it stay there, another piece of pop art to join the broken dreams that make up the sparkles in the sidewalk. A homeless man looks up at me and mumbles something, asking for help. He doesn't want money. He doesn't want drugs. He just wants a chance. I could give him that chance. I could take him back to my bright, beautiful home, hovering on the third and fourth floors above the street like fog on a lake. I could give him a job, give him a purpose. Hell, if I gave him a shower and a makeover, he might even be pretty hot. Maybe this could be the love of my life, sitting right in front of me in squalor and misfortune. Maybe this is the one toad I have to kiss to fulfill a lifetime of angst. Maybe this is it.
But Taking Back Sunday is playing at Avalon, and I've got to hurry if I want to get all the way across town.