THE TICKET

SPORK YOU

Slick is back by popular demand! For those of you who haven’t been paying attention since 2007 and can’t keep all the HWS character’s straight – Slick is my young (soon to turn 50) friend with a recording studio and obsession with hunting the most dangerous game: supermodels. Although some of his past supermodel girlfriends have become my good friends, this is not about relationships. This is about the hunt. Slick is addicted to the hunt. We all hunt for different reasons. I hunt my own (and neighbor’s) territory for game that I’m familiar with. For example, I hunt deer and turkey not far from my house. If I get a clean shot I take it. I no longer pass on medium size bucks, in the hope that the monster trophy animal will someday materialize. Instead, I’m more than satisfied taking a kill shot on a respectable animal. I like the hunt, but I like eating more. Slick is different. For him it’s all about the trophy. Not only does he have stands all over preserves like Manhattan, but he also regularly goes on safari. Recently he was in Mexico City for Art Basil Mexico. Supermodels flock to such events. It’s like fishing for blues when they are running or shooting ducks in a migration pattern. Even if you don’t bag something, you’ll have plenty of action. Today he called me, back from the hunt for a little de-brief. “Well, the Mexican girl I went down there to see was too busy to see me. Plus, I think she has a girlfriend. All good. There was so many Russians my head was spinning.” I like to hunt whitetail. No matter what woods Slick finds himself in, he loves to hunt Russians. "I went to this opening and Spencer was there, showing a film from the 90’s. I looked up and here comes this women down the stairs…..oh my God……tall, long legs, …. total stunner! I asked Spencer if he knew her and if she was single? He said she was. I went directly over and chatted her up.” Slick has a certain all in immersive A.I. technique when it comes to hunting. It’s not like he uses drones (yet) but he amasses information like a C.I.A. agent in downtown Beijing. Name? Vocation or job? Ethnicity (just small talk)? Would you like a drink? Then, on the way to the bar he’ll follow her on insta-stalk, while scanning the place, making sure there’s not a hotter girl hiding somewhere behind a potted plant. Once back with the drink (if the quarry hasn’t bolted) it’s time to get down to business. “We started talking and she said that she had seen this really weird thing today- an eating utensil that was both a spoon and a fork. “A spork?” I asked. She looked at me, squinting those beautiful eyes, furrowing her cute little brow and said, “Spork? I never heard that term. That’s funny.” I was in. I tried to buy her dinner, rent her an apartment, lease her a car, meet her parents….whatever she wanted. She said that she was too busy preparing her art show. I should come to the opening on Saturday." This is the other thing with Slick’s technique. He has the money to buy the best gun, most powerful scope, fanciest hunting boots…..so he doesn’t hesitate to throw it all at the wall. Once he had the intel on her cute “spork” moment he took a shot. Slick spent most of the next two days scouring Mexico City for a fucking spork. “I looked everywhere, hardware stores, kitchen ware, jewelry shops, camping supply. Nothing. I did meet two hot Russian lesbians. They may have been high end escorts. I didn’t care. I bought them both dinner. They were fun, but also too busy. But it was the spork girl who I couldn’t get out of my head. Was it too late to get a spork made at Tiffany's? Then, right before the opening I went in a bodega and found a yellow cup of lemon yogurt with a little blue plastic spork attached to the lid. Scored! I wrapped it up with a sexy note in Espanola and couldn’t wait to give it to her at the opening. I went in the door and spotted her across the room……I had a giant smile on my face and was trying to catch her eye…..when this tall, handsome, very rich looking dude passed her a drink. She smiled, stretched up and kissed him. I tossed the fucking spork in the trash and left.” Flying back home across the Gulf of America I’d like to think Slick took stock, adding up the luxury expenditures and amount of time and effort put into trophy hunting on this epic scale. You have to ask yourself at some point is a wall hanger worth the time, effort and money it takes to bag a world class animal? And once you do bag one what about the taxidermy bill? I already know the answer.

MANY HANDS AT WORK

THE LITTLE GREEN PARTY

As you could surmise from my last two blogs, I don’t have much going on. That’s why today I decided to form a political party. I don’t know why it took me SO LONG to come up with the idea. It was simple. There’s already a “Green Party,” so name recognition is baked in. Then, all I had to do was cob together some text over a photo and the party was formed…..I thought. Feeling self-satisfied I got off the couch and forced myself to get some wood in for the night. I was bending over and picking up a log when inspiration hit, and the party was truly formed. The slogan: “Let’s Get This Party Started!” Popped into my noggin. That’s what was missing. Now we have eight years to get our shit together. The entire process took about 20 minutes. I’m sure political parties have been formed in less time…. still it wasn’t bad. What’s our platform? You ask. Even without any candidate, I have an answer – Potlatch. Simply put, this is an ancient system of consumer dependency and power distribution that relies on the belief that the more you give away, the more status you gain within the community. Usually, hyper-localized, there’s no reason why this mindset could not be applied globally. There’s an intrinsic element of healthy competition here. Billionaire slobs love to one up each other in any exchange. Imagine if people actually wanted to have dinner with Elon Musk or Trump without all the genuflecting and reach-arounds? Imagine if billionaires competed in give-away largess? THIS is what LGP candidates (we only run for Prez) would be all aout. There’s no time to waste. I put it out there. I got two likes on insta. Come on PEOPLE! You all have been bitching forever that the two-party system doesn’t work. I agree. The T-shirts (that I hope to get somebody to pay for) will say – L.G.P. - LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED! Check for rallies to come!

OLD SCHOOL BED

THE VICARIOUS AVATAR Part II

Before we (literally) pick up O’s blood trail, let me give you a little background on where this guy is hunting. I used to hunt the same woods. Back in my day it was “fair chase,” plenty of bucks, but mostly sixes and eights. That was before the fence went up. Nowadays the island of Manhattan is a well-stocked “canned hunt” preserve, where only the rich elites (and their hangers-on) can afford to hunt. Bagging a twelve pointer is still tough, but way more commonplace than you would imagine. My buddy has got himself hooked up with stands and guide service from Harlem to Bushwick. On this night, he and O were headed to the East Village - Ludlow and Houston – my old stomping grounds, to lay up for the night. I’m sure there has to be a stand or two of mine that hasn’t rotted out of a neighborhood tree. Careful climbing the ladder. But enough of me. Back to O. “I was strategically wiping the vomit from my mouth, when I heard the word “period.” I still couldn’t feel my legs. “Do you have any tampons?” I asked her. She shook her head. “No worries.” She grinned, “I’ll use toilet paper.” I had rented a friend’s pad for the month and remembered we were also out of TP. Finally, we found a bodega that was open. O threw opened the door and announced to two startled Pakistani gentlemen “I’m BLEEDING!” Before they could dial 911, I explained that her trauma was not worth calling an ambulance. No, they didn’t have tampons…….but they did have toilet paper. Phew. We got home and O disappeared into the bathroom. When she re-emerged, she was dragging a tail of white paper and wearing a quizzical look on her beautifully symmetrical face. “I’ve been here before…..oh no……” Then she went silent. Turned out the guy who I was renting the place from, had also “dated” O. What the fuck? “He was way too handsy…” she confessed. “Not rapey, but pushy.” O wanted to leave immediately. (A good hunter will intuit when his prey is getting hinky, nose in the air, checking the wind, stomping the inter-digital gland with those stilettos, getting ready to snort and blow the scene). My friend didn’t dare move for fear of spooking her. Then, thankfully, O thought better. She was way too fucked up to find the front door – even in a studio apartment. We never got our clothes off – just passed out on the bed. In the morning I bought her a nice breakfast and told her I’d drive her to get her bag that she left at the CHELSEA and to her modeling gig. “What’s your name again?” she asked, leaning over her scrambled eggs. I told her, again. Then, if all this wasn’t crazy enough, she cocked her head and squinted her cute little eyes. “I KNOW YOU!” HOLY SHIT – AGAIN! I have no idea what her fucking “awakening” and this bizzarro series of events is trying to tell me, but we HAD met a year ago, exchanged info and followed each other on insta. End of story. (Then he dropped her off at her gig and called me. I took a nap, got my mail, went to the bank, bought groceries, and played with Cheeky and got wood in. That was my day. I asked if he was going to see her again? What do you think?) This could be the one.

YOU CAN LEAD A HORST TO WATER