Mickey Mouse went to Morrissey Night
“I would go out tonight, but I haven’t found a stitch to wear….”
This Charming man by Morrissey.
“OMG” is all I could think when I first saw it. It was just siting there on this rack of clothes in this vintage store ran my some Asians, right off north 6th in Williamsburg.
Exactly-someone passed on this shirt in Williamsburg. Why no one purchased it was beyond me. It was only worth 18 dollars and in perfect condition. A Motherfucking Mickey Mouse original from the 80’s. I had to have it. It was bright, colorful with a touch of neon. It’s the beginning of summer. It’s pooooifect.
I know I can’t keep it forever. To be wearing such a loud shirt after 35 years on this Earth might be a little too much. I’m 34 so it’s ok I have a little time to burn it out. When I’m done I’ll send it to my friend Michele in Texas whose much younger and can pass off this ridiculousness way more than I could. In my mind it’s all about art and gifts and we had initially met trading stuff. I send her a picture text of the shirt and she’s so stoked I drop the phone from the weight of all the exclamations marks. She promises to make me an original t-shirt in return and now I’m excited. She made the logo for my blog so I’m confident this shirt is going evict all my other t-shirts from my rotation. I put on my white shell toe Adidas and a pair of white jeans with the bottoms cuffed up. I put on the Mickey Mouse. Fresh.
It’s time for brunch.
Relish was on North 3rd street close to the East River waterfront in Brooklyn and looked like a diner out of the 50’s. The motorcycle shop across the street and the hipsters in their late 20’s dressed in the Rockabilly look didn’t help either. Here is where I surprised my friend Jolene with a visit during her birthday brunch while I was living in California and took a picture with Agyness Deyn . This is also where my girlfriend crushed my heart and made croutons for her salad. I never told her how I went to the bathroom downstairs and wanted to flush myself down the toilet, cursing out some undeserving patron for watching me die slowly. All she saw was the Hispanic Men Don’t Cry front little latin boys are taught by their dysfunctional parents. But here we are now, arriving together hand in hand from our apartment together. I still order the same eggs with chicken gravy on a biscuit while I read the NY Post and she still orders the Bloody Mary except everything is ok now. She playfully interrupts when I read Page six and I steal her celery. Everyone is staring at Mickey.
It’s the last shirt I’ll ever wear at Relish, for after so many years they have closed their doors permanently.
Wiped my face tipped my hung over waitress and smoked a camel light. Kara bows out of going to the Thompson Hotel pool party because of the on coming rain. The humidity is super gluing my nuts to my leg and I can’t take it. I have to go to the city and run a few errands. I kiss her Goodbye and it’s a seat on the very air-conditioned J train. Next stop Essex st. Alexandra sends me the password for me to whisper to the hotel clerk. Cool. I trade jokes with Napolean in front of the Rivington Hotel while I simultaneously Twitter, Facebook, text, and bbm. My phone is shooting steam out the headphone jack from so much action. The rain is starting to leave little beads of water on my cell phone screen. It’s time to go.
Now I’m in this elevator levitating to the pool level of the Thompson Hotel. Everyone is seeking shelter from the rain under balcony’s and the umbrellas provided by the sponsor of the week. Frog and Alexandra have been trying to find the remote control for the flat screen tv inside the towel lounge for 30 minutes now. We find someones crusty thong. Gross. This pool party is “meh”. I take Mickey in the pool for a minor dip for a picture then leave because getting struck by lighting and paying for an overpriced drink is a reality now.
Piano’s. Can’t say much except the bar food is great and Ninjasonik has a permanent residency on the first 5 bar stools. Everything is brown or green and the tables on the side are weird and uncomfortable. Bands also play in the back but unless someone recommends me one I don’t pay attention. With the internet and Myspace it’s like everyone has a band now and even if they made trading cards I still couldn’t follow them. We all get margaritas with french fries and Prince Terrence shows up along with Jonna . I make a bad and borderline racist joke about Palestinians to the Israeli waitress so now I don’t trust the fries. It’s time for me to go again.
Mickey Mouse is ketchup stain and Gaza free.
Mickey is very well-behaved now. Walking through the Lower East Side streets reading every wall like spray paint was hieroglyphics. He almost blends into the concrete. It’s amazing the colors that a cloudy day make. Every bright color is layered with the wet tint. The blocks smell like sulfur and the rain turns the street garbage into dirty soup, almost like the colors are melting into the asphalt and cement that makes up our universe. How can you not love New York City rain? Intrusive and annoying yet romantic and lustful. A welcomed shower in the summer or a brutal hail in the winter. The puddles dirty the back of your jeans the steam makes your skin look sultry. Your bags get wet and rip on the way home or that goodbye kiss makes separating from your lover even harder. life, like the storming sky, is one big grey area.
The Mouse is now making plans. He’s directs me to St. Jeromes to pick up Britney and Veronica. They have a few friends in town and and want me to show them a good time. Personally I feel the only people who could have fun at St. Jeromes are crusty punks and Lady Gaga. As much as Mickey is a trooper I put the kibosh on his Jack Daniels and water. “Let’s go to Sway…”
Brittany will only go to Sway with me. She hasn’t had the best of luck with the bouncers and door gods at the velvet ropes. Doesn’t help that her look is Maine wholesome with a tint of Park Slope Prep and not the heroin goth of Tompkins Square Park that frequent that party on any given Sunday. Her night usually ends up at Motor city after cursing everyone out and drunkenly taking a cab in the wrong direction. Mind you, you can never tell when she’s wasted, they build drinkers and Senators in Maine. Veronica could give a fuck less. Everyone’s tough as shit until the door girl at Sway tells you it’s a private party or is asking you for whose party are you there for. She didn’t ask the Kate Moss wanna be or the dread locked dude wearing sunglasses at 2am and all you can do is think “what gives?!”.
Once you’re inside you’re a member of the league of extraordinary New Yorkers and the jet setter “fashionistas”. Skate boarders from SoHo with ski equipment dealers from Uptown. Everyone is exceptionally unique but the identity in whole is all the same. Everyone is just too fucking cool. An industry party for indie social vultures and the transplants that want to emulate them. It’s always 3 people in a bathroom stall and the smell of smoke in the air which taste like sweat. It takes you 30 minutes to get from the front to the back and the bar is as small as a 2 bedroom loft in Brooklyn. Everyone is moshing to Morrissey and signing the words off-key. Loudly and sloppily. Why Ben Cho is DJ’ing and not making clothes is beyond me but this is his party and he’ll spin if he wants to. Everyone dresses as if they are trying to inspire him. A beer has now fallen on me and I’ve been burned by someones swaying cigarette twice. Everyone is pushing and shoving and jumping and hugging and loving it. Brittany is now the photographer as she follows me from one hand shake to another. I watch two girls go at it while this other man rebuffs the advances of an overly eager coke zombie. I can’t stop laughing. This is my favorite party. Mickey Mouse now smells like a bar rag and my sneakers are shit brown. It’s only 2:37 in the morning and I can’t stop jumping. No one can.
Michelle is going to be receiving a very gross t-shirt in the mail.
Done with the help of Brittany Saliwanchik