15 Mar 2009
9:30pm
Mr. Fixer finally crashed and burned to a feathery pile of ash this
weekend after six+ carefree weeks of unemployment. It was unavoidable.
It's the same story all over the city. The streets are littered with
former cowboys, rock stars, and moguls (oh my), used to power lunches
by day and $500 bottle service by night—slowly realizing that all the
rules have changed and no one gave them the brochure.
Even though MF is still cush financially, that's only like 25% of the picture. The other 75% is equal parts sense of purpose and perceived ball size, both of which withered to raisin-ish proportions at approximately 10 a.m. Saturday morning. I realized something was a bit off when I called to see if we were still on for brunch and he replied that life sucked, and if he had to be in the same room with happy people eating eggs benedict he could/would not be held responsible for his actions. By the time I got over to his place at noon, it had metastasized. Evidence? He was...
A. Wearing a threadbare robe that hit at about thigh level. Because it was so dingy and trashed it occurred to me that it might have once been a full length robe... when he was 11.
B. Squirting whipped cream from a can directly into his mouth
C. Listening to the Smiths ridiculously loud
D. Moaning intermittently
What
could I do? I mean seriously, it's not like a man wants a pep talk at a
time like that. So anyway, yeah—I cleaned his apartment and gave him
a blow job. Forgive me Gloria Steinem.
