Archives for category: fashion

These are stills I found online of Multiple Maniacs, Mondo Trasho and Cry Baby mostly. Part Two will be photographs taken by me of my monitor as I am revisiting Polyesther and Female Trouble.

My to do lists are generally pretty bipolar.


Men’s white cotton briefs are just better than regular boxers or the boxer-brief hybrid. Below is a list of reasons why this is not an opinion, but indeed, a fact. This list is compiled from things I already knew confirmed by the advertisements in the gallery that follows. You found ease in opening your legs. Try to do the same with your mind:

they are soft

they are honest

they don’t ride up

they show more thigh

they are designed for action

they have better sitting capacity

they give better scrotum support

they look cuter in a dresser drawer

they don’t fade in the wash, they only get softer

erections are showcased much more beautifully in briefs

they are usually white which enhances all skin tone types

they are cooler and hot guys need to feel comfortable, too

they look like underwear, whereas boxers look like lackluster shorts

they neatly wrap a package, making it more convenient to grab and hold

they are usually white which makes bleaching out skidmarks a no-brainer

the bigger the manhood, the bigger the peekaboo from the seam at the thigh

the coveted hip flexor muscle made famous by one Mark Wahlberg is still exposed

because the fabric is softer, receiving a wedgie wearing a pair briefs is less daunting

they boast buttocks better, prompting them to look riper, rounder and more bountiful

women are encouraged to wear skimpy underwear and people should practice what they preach

you can steal a bunch from your slampiece, cut them up and make a pillow that would be way softer than if you did the same thing with boxer shorts

the fabric of the brief is more porous which absorbs body odor better and retains it longer which is a very good thing if you are sleeping with the right person (you should be sleeping with the right person, if his body odor grosses you out then you are sleeping with the wrong person and you are a whore)

briefs went out of style in the nineties… and everything you wore in the nineties was stupid

think about it.


One afternoon in April of 2004, a totally awesome gay couple got nearly naked and climbed¬†35 feet up a pine tree in Central Park, entertained hundreds of passersby and put a bunch of government bitches to WORK. Just north of Wollman Rink next to the Chess and Checkers House, one wore a black thong and the other, boxer shorts. It was in this tree they remained until sundown… professing their love by giving each other oral sex and enjoying soft drinks.

The New York Times reported that the older one, aged 32, had “feminine breasts” and shouted threats at rescue workers demanding a can of Vanilla Diet Pepsi. The other was but 17, quiet and despondent that his family had not accepted his relationship.

At one point a police officer made a motion toward the elder soda¬†connoisseur and he reacted, screaming, “I want to talk to my mother!” and shimmying even higher up the tree. He threatened to jump, and even took his underwear off and threw it at an officer who caught it. He ripped tree branches off and whipped them around before dropping them. After about three hours of this, an officer came back from a bodega with a can of soda for him. He threw that shit on ground and shouted: ”That is a Coke. I wanted Vanilla Diet Pepsi!!”

This deeply romantic story ends with the two finally surrendering well into the evening, at which time they were tossed into the Cornell Center for psychiatric evaluation.

When I moved into my third floor apartment at 40 Ludlow, I did that shit by myself. And its a good fucking thing I collected books. Once I was able to corral all of that crap inside, I locked the door behind me and left to go check the neighborhood. I needed a restaurant where I could rest my rump and thighs over a cocktail and then eat my face off. But first I needed a New York Post.

When I eat alone, I like to slobber over some Page Six.

There were a lot of 99 cent stores and a lot of laundromats around. An adorable elementary school, a funeral home, and a whole mess of dusty massage parlours.

At Canal and Ludlow I found a French African Brazilian bar/eatery thing called Les Enfants Terribles. This was it. I had found my lair. My deal closer. Shadowy, sexy and small, the bar wrapped all the way around to make a rectangle. The low hanging lamps over the bar were dim and reflected on the copper bar, on the gilded ceiling, and in the floor to ceiling windows. I gave up trying to wrap my mind around the music; world music, hip hop, forgotten 80’s new wave layered with house, and even some Mowtown.

I ordered a cocktail with vodka, a bunch of sugar and smooshed up green grapes. I drank four or five of those before ordering mussels and some Moqueca, a seafood-coconut-milk stew, which was just jammed with shrimp and came with a steaming bowl of white rice. The bartenders were deliciously dismissive and and a perfect D.J. dude with salt and pepper dreadlocks served up some Snoop Dogg and Shirelles. My only gripe was the octagonal shaped bar stool my ass was swallowing. I had to keep standing up and twisting my seat a shade to distribute the the pain and possibility of a puncture wound.

I ate enough food for two of those asses. I burped my way back to 40 Ludlow, up those three flights and slipped into a coma on my old mattress and new floor.

I didn’t go to Les Enfants Terribles every night thereafter.

I went almost every night.

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