Helicopter

We looked so good together on the subway, but we parted at your next stop, and I tried to eat a little better to trim off those pounds, but come on, now, that never works. It takes barbells and trainers and the threat of summer. And only you will make it.

But I feel better. I'm wearing better clothes and walking in new sunglasses, finding that every fantasy you create can become reality if you shove aside a goal, because goals are thoughts more than plans.

I'm buying a bike and building a helicopter on top of my three-story walk-up. Get on your roof and look for me.

Photograph by this guy

Just Give Her Something to Say

Andy Whistler woke up to a loud thunk against his door followed by silence. He opened it and found Meagan, her nostril bleeding a crimson line that trickled over her and was poised to drip from her chin. She smiled and laughed that uneasy laugh that screamed "take me back" but he just let her in. Meagan spent her days sitting Indian style, cradling wine and twiddling packs of cigarettes and was better off as on the sidelines than running with the bulls. Steel blue eyes, the same size she and we all had as babies, that even in such a stupefying state of drug and drink, told him of her confusion.

He wiped her nose and let her in.

What Is This "Vision" of Which You Speak?

Growing up a wee lad I had the most tremendous amount of respect for daredevils like Evel Knievel or Jimmy Snuka, wild ass and embattled lunatics who earned their fame by breaking their bones. I wanted to ride a motorcycle or jump off the tops of steel cages. Those dreams died when I realized that glory in aerial stunts is fleeting at best. I now have the utmost respect for a whole different breed of human: blind folk.

Even in the most familiar of surroundings I would not set foot outside of my home were I lacking the gift of sight, that power we use to not only warn of us of large piles of poodle poop but also to spot a mate, be it for life or a night. A cane would bring me no comfort.

Today I spotted a blind Frenchman walking by himself, talking to himself, a grin upon his face as he tapped out his path before him. The chirps of traffic signals told him to stop and go; I'm sure he knew it was a beautiful day by how the sun baked his cheeks. He never knows bad news because he can't read it. But he will never know a photograph or the power of maps.

Photograph by Story Sloane III

Yes Milton, He's Doing Quite Well These Days

Using a piece of wheat bread I slathered up the remaining cranberry sauce and brought it to my lips, a gob dropping on to my hand-me-down tux, another roll of the eyes from my relatives seated at the circular table. Though the invitation said "dry" I said "no" and proceeded to pound shot after scraping shot from my grandfather's flask, stopping myself from vomiting in the bathroom sink while the priest knuckled and knocked on the door. I ate a flower from the bride's bouquet and dropped two plates of chicken fingers while feigning sobriety. The girl my aunt introduced me to told me my breath could sanitize a lab. I replied that she wouldn't know fun if it crawled up her skirt and bit her.

I'm Going to Be a Sad Boy When Tom Selleck Leaves the Earth

The only man besides my father who can pull off a moustache. May this clip show you just how much better off we are since we had Mr. Selleck galavanting about in Hawaiian shirts (Magnum, P.I.) and acting as the most debonaire of 1980s NYC bachelors (Three Men and a Baby).

Tom Selleck on "The Daily Show"

More Imagination

There was a time when rock and roll pranksters had a little bit more panache, be it by using swordfish to sexually satisfy groupies, or wiring your bass drum with small explosives and partially deafening your guitarist after detonating them on live television. Pete Doherty is more subdued and manages to stay in the public eye by tripping over his decadent boots and accidentally always managing to land on a syringe that just happens to be filled with heroin. No more. The artist has moved on to painting masterpieces with blood. His brush? Well, hell, a needle. So speaketh his former manager, James Mullord, whose sangre was extracted by Doherty for one of his works.

"He was very careful, he used a new needle. Pete has become very good at using the syringe, either scratching it on to the paper or spraying an area. It creates an effect a little like a Ralph Steadman cartoon."

I'm sure he's badass. The image of him allegedly injecting a female with heroin, Doherty defends, really was staged and he was merely extracting her blood to use as paint. Yes, Pete, and Jack Ruby was just poking Lee Harvey Oswald in the ribs.

Doherty's Blood Paintings [This Is London, from the Evening Standard]