WASH YOUR HANDS, NOT YOUR VAGINA
I'm still writing this in a dark closet, not letting anyone know that I've continued laying out my inner most thoughts in blog form. There's a nagging feeling I have that I should continue in this mode. We'll see. There's not much room in here.
Once again I made the journey into town. The occasion was a party for an art show documenting the East Village art scene circa 1974-1984, curated by a friend. In my humble opinion, I should've been included but was not. The friend felt my career was not developed enough by 1984. I felt that was my peak. Far as I'm concerned, it's been a steady downhill slide since then. In order to complicate my visit a little, I hooked up with my married love for dinner and drinks before the party. She was becoming brazen in her association with me. I was the whispering voice of reason. "Are you sure?" I'd warn. "Do you really want to be seen with me?" My reputation was already shot. She didn't seem fazed. Full speed ahead. She picked up the tab.
The party, in a dark club, complete with famous geezer DJs and a set by old lady band The Bushtetras (who rocked like only women closing in on menopause can), was satisfying, if not fun. I soon forgot my ommision into history and concentrated on downing as many free Amstels as I could manage and still get back on the mountain before the sun burned a hole in me. The obligatory driver's seat blow job followed with a omnipresent soundtrack of BBC news drifting over the radio. Men who say they can't get it up with the BBC on in the background...well I just don't get it.
After sufficiently wallowing in dark side street carnality I pointed the car towards Brooklyn and dropped half of this twisted couple off within a block of the bosom of her family. Turning up the radio the Brits informed me what do do in case I came in contact with any sick fowl. "WASH YOUR HANDS!" I'd been feeling a bit poozily as of late, thinking maybe I'd caught a touch of bird-flu. Then the next story informed the women of the world that washing their vaginas could lead to a greater risk in contacting HIV- AIDS. I checked my watch just to make sure I hadn't fallen into some worm hole and emerged on April Fool's day. NPR had fooled me before with exploding sap trees in the Vermont hills on April first. Nope, still January.
I was home by 2am. I washed my face AND HANDS, emailed my love about the benefits of a dirty pussy, put a log on the fire and drifted off into dreamland. I dreamed of the dark moist valleys and green hills of Mexico. I need to get the hell out of here. There's a good three months left to winter, hunting season's over and idle hands (dirty or not)....... For once in my life my bills are paid and I have money in my pocket. I think I'll head south. I crave some adventure.
Once again I made the journey into town. The occasion was a party for an art show documenting the East Village art scene circa 1974-1984, curated by a friend. In my humble opinion, I should've been included but was not. The friend felt my career was not developed enough by 1984. I felt that was my peak. Far as I'm concerned, it's been a steady downhill slide since then. In order to complicate my visit a little, I hooked up with my married love for dinner and drinks before the party. She was becoming brazen in her association with me. I was the whispering voice of reason. "Are you sure?" I'd warn. "Do you really want to be seen with me?" My reputation was already shot. She didn't seem fazed. Full speed ahead. She picked up the tab.
The party, in a dark club, complete with famous geezer DJs and a set by old lady band The Bushtetras (who rocked like only women closing in on menopause can), was satisfying, if not fun. I soon forgot my ommision into history and concentrated on downing as many free Amstels as I could manage and still get back on the mountain before the sun burned a hole in me. The obligatory driver's seat blow job followed with a omnipresent soundtrack of BBC news drifting over the radio. Men who say they can't get it up with the BBC on in the background...well I just don't get it.
After sufficiently wallowing in dark side street carnality I pointed the car towards Brooklyn and dropped half of this twisted couple off within a block of the bosom of her family. Turning up the radio the Brits informed me what do do in case I came in contact with any sick fowl. "WASH YOUR HANDS!" I'd been feeling a bit poozily as of late, thinking maybe I'd caught a touch of bird-flu. Then the next story informed the women of the world that washing their vaginas could lead to a greater risk in contacting HIV- AIDS. I checked my watch just to make sure I hadn't fallen into some worm hole and emerged on April Fool's day. NPR had fooled me before with exploding sap trees in the Vermont hills on April first. Nope, still January.
I was home by 2am. I washed my face AND HANDS, emailed my love about the benefits of a dirty pussy, put a log on the fire and drifted off into dreamland. I dreamed of the dark moist valleys and green hills of Mexico. I need to get the hell out of here. There's a good three months left to winter, hunting season's over and idle hands (dirty or not)....... For once in my life my bills are paid and I have money in my pocket. I think I'll head south. I crave some adventure.
posted by mike osterhout at 10:08 AM
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