well if that aint just some cold shit

After my last post, which periferally referenced Dr. Jonathan Zizmor (New York City's greatest dermatologist and, most probably, lover, cricket batter, and sushi chef) I decided that it was absolutely essential to cultivate a friendship with this bad-ass dude-bro, so that I might a) have a kick-ass wingman to trump any and all fratty assholes at fratty asshole bars downtown, b) enjoy the company of a fellow intellectual titan, and c) get some clear-as-the-plains skin via J-Ziz's (ostensibly) patented fruit acids technique.

So I rolled on over to the doctor's swank Upper West Side digs. Damn, who knew a dude could or would hook up two fireplaces, a woodworking shop, and an olympic-size swimming pool in the same room? Fuck you, it is so true--I found this exact thing when, upon arriving and being summarily dismissed by a servant I can only assume was fired the next day for the error, I hopped the wrought-iron fence and (removing my hat Elwood Blues style) punched a hole in the nearest accesible window.

Now, I'm not one to drink and tell--particularly because I usually fail to remember--but suffice to say I happened upon the good Dr. Zizmor and plied him with some of his finest Cognac. Within an hour, we were slapping backs and tellin' yarns like old college buddies. Within two hours, we were bitter enemies, and within two hours and twenty-six minutes, ol' Ziz looked in dire need of some of his own dermological care (on account of the battering I gave him via fisticuffs, if you catch my drift here).

Upon Zizmor's utilization of some sort of electronical security beacon (which I would call a "Pussy Whistle"), I made a quick exit, appropriating a passing bike messenger's trusty 15-speed steed. I spent the next 2 days and nights in the untamed area of Central Park known to bird watchers and hobos as The Ramble.

Now I have crept to a Starbucks on 110th Street, and, with a bit of the ol' Pterodactylus charm (which I inherited from my grandfather, Jorge--my father was a decidely uncharming man), managed to borrow a bit of time on a film student's laptop.

It is time that I went "on the lamb" as it were, time to pull my own Kerouac--though I, of course, never stooped to playing college football or living in Florida.