contact arthur at sexpigeon dot org
An all-time favorite among men’s haircuts. “The Frisbee Dog Goof.” Sometimes seen roller skating with an ice cream cone. Has houseplants.
Break up with three leggy chicks in mini-dresses every day, or it ain’t no kinda day at all.
San Francisco has the most busted looking police cars
Hey now!
I like the SFPD’s cars. They have the punch of a town ten times the size of San Francisco. A city the size of, say, New York.
I was madly disappointed the first time I saw a NYPD cruiser. Just look at this insecure mess of an automobile:
Cheap-looking racing stripes, bumbling typography, pointless mantras, its seal crammed into some ignoble taint between the door and the wheel well.
I expected one of two things. One was sophistication. A crisp, chilly livery that casts a hush as it passes. And how slowly it passes, a prowler, a unknowable force about to strike. The other was rough-and-tumble. Like a ’70s cigarette ad or a ’60s pulp novel. Car seats that are beer-sticky and an “N.Y.P.D.” whose letters are flat-sided and brawling. Cars that smell of city vice. Cars that creep around with a hey-fuck-you-buddy grimace.
The NYPD’s cars are not sophisticated and not rough-and-tumble. They are the saddest possible thing: dull, dim-witted, and in no way representative of their city, a great city, a city that is not dull or dim.
You call that a limp noodle? Get your hands out of your pockets and show her the full-body crumple she deserves.
Say you black out at a party or at the bar or, hey, wherever, it’s your life. Say you black out drunk and you wake up in a barely remembered living room on this. On this iridescent bitchpants sofa, its reflection glinting electric blue radiance into your irises. The problem with blacking out is that you tend to find yourself on perfectly ordinary sofas: slightly grody and basically forgettable. Or, worse, you find yourself back in your own bed, a place you are tediously accustomed to. Friend, I want to be in a position to guarantee you a bleary awakening upon chubby lamé. My want of wealth is limited to this.
A light bulb unprotected from the rain, throwing off steam, hissing a little. Such is this remarkable hair and face.
Now go and bring him back a carton of strawberry milk. One of those half-pints from the cafeteria.
You’ve probably never asked yourself what the correct outfit is for playing solitaire on your phone. He did.
A Russian juggernaut is shaking you awake. “You have Zipcar? You get Zipcar for me, yes?” You do, and for your kindness you are given four hundred sequined camisoles to hold onto until next week.
