Fuck Jack Kerouac. Fuck the Beat Poets, Beatniks, and "We Got The Beat" (The Beets, Douglas Funny's favorite band, are still totally cool with me). Somewhere in Nebraska, standing on the side of a windswept highway--okay, there was actually little in the way of wind; I just wanted to romanticise--I took a long, hard look at the cluster of concrete blocks in the distance that would resolve, at some nearer point, into a shopping mall. And I said to myself, "I don't want this." Who was I kidding? I'm not the type for hard-won insight into the plight of every-day America. I'm much more interested in hard-drinking in the finest and/or most overwrought hotel bars of the Eastern seaboard.
So I'm back. Last night, propped against the bar of Blanco's (an establishment so exclusive they don't have a phone, or even a door (you have to climb in through a window)) in a bespoke-tailored suit made personally for me by Hedi Slimane (Hedi's my boi), I felt at peace. I felt as though I had gotten back to my roots. My roots are best nurtured by a bottle or two of Hendrick's and sleeping in until 6:30pm every day, and I was a fool to think otherwise. I shouldn't have let something as silly as a dust-up with New York's finest dermatologist upset me; after all, it was just last month that I was briefly married to New York's finest neurosurgeon, and this past summer I challenged the city's most highly regarded OBGYN to a duel. Guess who won.
But my life is not all 17th-century gold-plated duelling pistols and women doused in Champagne. Sometimes I prefer sabers, or, on rare occasion, scimitars.
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