boom boom

last night i had a swanky charity event, which i was invited to by a designer that "loves my style." though i hardly think a hanes his way wife beater, black jeans, and rattled old white boots constitutes a new york minute, i do have to agree with her. i make a plain white tank top i bought in a pack of three scream sex. i digress. the event was at a little place on bowery on the lower east side, and filled with industry specialists from designers to models to wonderful gay men who want me to be their arm candy at fashion week. D. and i had a blast, starting with vodka on the rocks and moving on to the free 2 buck chuck wine, laughing at the models sucking in their bellies and cheeks, posing for the paps, and eventually getting drunk on the christmas lights that from far away, almost look like the glowing city windows from a high rise in midtown.

after i dropped D. off to get her bags at my house i caught a cab to meatpacking and met up with my old friend steve, who reps makers mark and loves going to the sexiest clubs for free. i mean, who doesn't, right? evidently the answer to that question... is me.

we went all the way up in this glorious silver bullet elevator that had no buttons, to the top floor of the standard hotel, eminently dubbed the "boom boom" i guess. i basically only look at out the doors of my bar to the standard because there's no reason for me to ever actually go in there, hoping to get a glimpse of lovers caught in the heat of the moment, the windows foggy from lust and breath and whatever else the smoke and mirrors brings to them... it's not a place where i would go to drink or sleep or work. definitely not work. cause the bitches in there need to eat a cookie and they scream desperation with their "i'm an up and coming model" glances over their obviously fake and very forced eyelashes. please. i might never have been slender enough to be a working runway and fashion model but i most likely will have had more print work than any of them in this lifetime without ever sucking a dick to get there. there were beautiful girls and well dressed men and money and glitter and a balcony to smoke on as i drank my twenty-five dollar a glass of perrier floret champagne....

and all i wanted to do as i looked out on the beauty of the twinkling city in all it's chilly glory and christmas light hoax buildings, was to be drinking 40s and eating grays papaya dogs, smiling at the people who don't get it. i like nice things. but i like good company more, and last night, i got hit hard. down for the count, regret-the-loss-of-a-feeling low. i always thought that those pretty things were the things i wanted, all shiny and new and crisp and clean. nice things are wonderful things to have. but the catch?

they really mean nothing if the meaning behind them is gone. finding something intangible that you love and cherish will fill the void that we replace with all those new things. and since especially right now, in the wake of losing that, those shiny new pretty lies are so transparent, like looking at fish through the bowl. things aren't fun when you are sitting in the middle of everything and wishing you were anywhere but there. the golden glow of the bar and the laughter all around me wasn't enough to make me smile, or feel as glamorous as all the rest of the sheep in there looked. in fact, it all made me feel... corroded. battery acid covering my insides.

so i finished my glass of champagne, kissed a bewildered steve goodbye (he could not for the life of him comprehend why anybody would ever want to leave his presence, which is why i love him and can't stand him all the same), and went to my dusty bar that was a speck of nothing on the golden room's radar. i drank pbr's until i forgot the feeling of the corrosion on my brain and took shots of jack like a fucking sniper picking off the good guys in a matt damon spy flick. i watched the girls clog on the bar and hugged my burly security guys, smoked cigarettes on the bench outside, not even glancing back at the golden high rise i had just come from.

i took a cab home, and woke up this morning, in my wife beater, jeans, and belt. which, by the way, i do not suggest belts are a good accessory to sleep in. the buckle is a little much, i think. especially when the floor pushes it into your hipbone. not pleasant. i've been writing and stretching and thinking all morning, took a break to watch dogma, and i have two more eyepatches to make before i go in and play the role at work tonight.

the problem with wanting to learn about everything is that you have to experience the bad right alongside the good to find out just how valuable the good is. and now, the bad is making me hate ever tasting the good. le sigh. one day, when i'm an eyepatch millionaire, maybe i'll buy that bar in the standard and serve 40s and hot dogs wrapped in bacon. and the people who come in will be more beautiful than anyone could ever see.

k.