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... In Which Fleetwhite Observes that Hockey Chicks are a Hell of a Lot Prettier then Art Sluts ...
Don't get me wrong, I'm not always scoring online or pimping, which is what fartmasks like, say, Fenton Rochilieu, would have you think. But there's actually a lot more to do in New Orleans than what has been discussed so far, and as a man who's seen it all, I feel entitled to make a generalized obeservation or two.
Art sluts are like the idea of Jesus in the book of Hebrews: the same today, yesterday, and tomorrow. Or anywhere in the world. At any time, too, 1925 Louise Brooks or 2002 Julia Street, it's all the SAME HOOR. The one who sports the dour aspect on her face and wears all black and won't be exhuberent even on three good hits of E. It becomes tiring, let me tell you, especially since those with a pretence to Art, that Fishnet Stocking crew, has never created more Art than last Saturday afternoon's furtive abortion, which was made it so refreshing for me to just say to hell with all those bastards and go to the hockey game.
And at the Hockey Game, pal, there is more Art than Julia, Camp, and Magazine Streets have EVER fucking seen and the women, well, they are fucking KNOCKOUTS, Bub. And they have fun! Show me an Art Slut who shows approval or pleasure and I'll show you Christ, man. Because those are some JADED hoors, man, the ones who were somehow raped at a tender age and who try to make up for it for the rest of their Lives by acting like movie stars they've never even watched. It's sad, actually.
But at the Hockey Match, the women who go to see the New Orleans Brass are so fresh! So refreshing. No pretence. If you want to have fucking Pretence you had at LEAST better be goddamn Marlene Dietrich and, as God and you both know, you are NOT. Sweetie.
I love the comraderie and the endless optimism of the hockey game, across the city from the endless black fishnet alcoholic stockings we'd seen since before even '67 and I enjoy seeing the freedom of the small children, dancing in the asiles, and just when I thought I was probably a totally jaded asshole I saw an entire ROW of young girls dancing to the movement of the puck across the ice and to the beat of the crowd, and I thought Audrey . . . Audrey.
Once, you see, even I was in a Relationship. Even I, though this was years ago. And she and I wanted a daughter and we wanted to name her that, and when she had a miscarriage I left her out of hate for no one but myself, for not being able to Control the World. I will never forgive myself, and at least I have THIS to my credit, if that can be said as such, and it can't.
I wasn't ALWAYS this way. Whatever it is that I am or am not. I'm almost fifty, to tell you the truth. And all the little girls at the Hockey Game were like the Flower Girls I never had,
But if Loss is what you HAVE, New Orleans will fill in the rest.
But here, it's every man for himself, not at ALL to mention the women. And MY pimping is imbued with Quality, the residual attraction of all the City's Art Sluts who finally realize it's time to officially BE what they are in the first place, and then they bring their would-be creative asses to ME, and we create Profit. I take 40% of it, but what they get is what they were already getting while sipping champagne, eating Danish Wedding Cookies and talking about Damien Hirst or Keith Haring or some shit. They end up with ME, and they get cock, pussy, and some money to boot, and whether they spend it on rock or on rent, is none of my business. But when the Gallery Openings are Over, I make sure they HAVE something. Because something is better than nothing.
At least that's what we like to say, here in old New Or-leans.
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