hipster – The High Heeled C*ntessa

INDIGO WOKE UP IN MYKONOS

If you’ll recall from the last installment of Indigo Wren, Indigo landed in Ibiza, made the drug transaction, got his money, checked into a five-star hotel and lived his best live for a couple of days. He ran into his arch-nemesis/love of his life, Lily Von Fustenburg at a club, and ended up on a yacht sailing for Mykonos. They had another falling out after Indigo saved her from an attempted sexual-assault, after which he took a handful of Xanax he found in the bathroom to pass out for the remainder of the trip…

Indigo woke up from his Xanax-induced slumber about 16 hours later… as usual, he was parched as fuck, didn’t remember where he was, or what had happened. He was still lying face-down, naked on the bedroom carpet, with a puddle of drool under his face. Once again, he did not know whether or not he had been sexually assaulted. He figured he was safe this time, since he had locked the bedroom door behind him.

Indigo dragged himself to a sitting position and tried to remember what had transposed between running into Lily at Amnesia two nights ago, and waking up on the floor of a moving yacht. His head was pounding from being dehydrated, and he was finding it hard to piece together the events of the last 36 hours. He wanted to cry, but he was too fucking dehydrated to even produce tears. He would have killed for a cold Gatorade and a couple of lines of the good stuff at this moment, but he had neither. FUCK. For the first time in a while, he was really lonely and he was really sad. He wished he was back home with his parents right now, or hanging out with a friend on a sofa somewhere in Williamsburg. Life was hard for a rolling stone.

What Indigo really need most right now, was a hug. Sadly for him, there was no one available to give him one. His parents were across an ocean, and they didn’t even know where he was. He had basically pushed away every real friend he had with his behavior and drug use, and all of the “fake friends” (aka party friends) were only around when there was fun to be had – they didn’t actually care to check up on him and see how he was doing. He felt so completely alone and wretched. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to live a life without drugs. Maybe, he wouldn’t find himself in these predicaments quite so often.

Indigo realized the room he was in came fully-equipped with speakers and an Echo Dot. He put some Incubus on to play, and he sat and listened to the lyrics of Brandon Boyd. As he meditated on his life, listening to Brandon Boyd croon out “Wish You Were Here”, he realized that he didn’t need drugs to be complete. He thought about Brandon Boyd, who seemed to have his shit together – he was fucking hot, thin and ripped, healthy, and didn’t seem to party or do hard drugs. Dude looks like he smokes mad weed, but that’s about it. Indigo considered all of these things. Maybe he too could live a clean and sober life style; go on a Paleo diet, get ripped, make music… write poetry…. he too could be an honest, artistic, and emotionally-deep man. “I don’t want to do drugs anymore. I want to be sober and feel real feelings. I want to experience emotions instead of suppressing them into nothingness – into blackness. I want to feel a natural high where there is no comedown… I’m so done chasing temporary highs and pleasure, and feeling like shit about myself the next day. I can’t live this way anymore.” He thought about all of it – about his life, sobriety, how fucked up his existence was…. how all of his friends were married and owned houses, and had kids… he thought about turning it all around and making an honest man out of himself.

But, honestly, what do you feel if you don’t feel high? Think about it for me. Think about it NOW. Do you feel happy? Do you feel fulfilled? Do you feel relaxed and in control of your life? Maybe you actually do. Indigo never felt these things when he was sober. When Indigo wasn’t high, he felt a plethora of feelings and emotions, none of which were good. He usually felt stressed and/or anxious, he always felt bored and restless, he usually felt sad and depressed and contemplated the meaning of his existence and of humanity. He didn’t like to feel these feelings, and that’s why he continually sought out drugs. Drugs were his only escape from reality and an escape from the prison that was his own mind. The only time he felt OK sober, was if and when he was in a relationship and had butterflies in his stomach because the relationship was new, or like, he was in the midst of an orgasm… those were the only natural highs he knew. I digress though….

Indigo turned off the music, he got himself dressed and went out on deck to see what was up. He would never be like Brandon Boyd. He was honestly more like Jim Morrison – a total, drug-addicted mess of a person. Except Indigo wasn’t 27 anymore, he wasn’t rich or hot, he wasn’t a rock star or a musical genius, and he didn’t have a following of millions of fans. Whatever – he was himself at least. He wasn’t pretending to be anything he wasn’t, and that is honorable enough.

He could see land in the near distance…. he estimated that they would be docking within the next 40 minutes. Indigo needed to think of a game plan and he needed to think of one quickly! Despite the pleasant thoughts of sobriety he’d had only minutes prior, he decided his best course of action was to use his last few hundred drug dollars to grab a drink once he landed, and then check out Lindsay Lohan’s club and secure some blow. He surmised he could just stay up and out all night, and then sleep on the beach to save money. Who needs a hotel when you’re on an island where it’s warm and never rains?!

He ran back to his cabin and packed the few articles of clothing he had, then brought his satchel with him to the bar for a couple of stiff drinks before embarking onto land. Naturally, he slammed back a couple of shots of Wild Turkey. He was ready to roll!

He stealthily bolted down the ramp and onto dry land as soon as the yacht docked in Mykonos. Indigo decided since he didn’t have a phone, he should really catch up on current news since he’d been checked out of reality for several weeks now; he was starting to worry about his parents worrying about him. Indigo walked around until he spotted a couple of American frat-boy type tourists whom he then approached and asked if they knew of any local sports bars. They pointed him in the direction of Blu Blu, and so he trekked across the island in the ballz-hot 101 degree sun. He stopped at a bank along the way to exchange his currency. When he finally reached Blu Blu, he was soaked in sweat and in need of water. He sauntered into the dark bar and took a seat in one of the lounge chairs facing a large-screen TV. He ordered a water and a bellini and tipped the waiter generously. He requested that they kindly switch the TV from the soccer match that was playing to BBC or any international news station… he also asked them if they had a contact to find blow, ever so nonchalantly, of course. The waiter consented because he’d been tipped well and there were only a couple of other customers who didn’t seem to be watching the game. He switched to CNN, and then looked through his phone and gave Indigo his coke contact. “Tell him you’re a friend of Stamos, and ask for the “special feta salad” *WINK*.

Indigo needed to sort out his priorities, so naturally he texted this Stamos fellow first. Next, he slipped his bellini and watched CNN. Ahhhh, how comforting it was to hear some American accents! It was at at that moment, as Indigo read the current news banner on the bottom of the screen that he saw his own name: “NEXT UP: THE SEARCH FOR INDIGO WREN CONTINUES….” At first, he didn’t think this could possibly be him… after all, his given birth name was actually ‘Jonathan Arthur Willard II,’ then again, he had been going by Indigo Wren for the past 20 or so odd years….

Indigo snapped his fingers for the waiter, “Sir, please turn up the volume!” he yelled, as he stood up and inched closer to the TV. A very HOMELY photo of him (pre-anorexia and really bad hair cut) took up the screen. At that moment, the screen panned-in to a very somber-looking Anderson Cooper (whom Indigo had secretly lusted after for several years), who then introduced the parents of a missing American citizen, known by the name of ‘INDIGO WREN.’

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT BALLZ… FUCK ME IN THE GOAT ASS!!!,” Indio shouted for all to hear. Indigo was in shock… his jaw dropped open, as he realized he was THE missing American Citizen, and his elderly parents were live on CNN begging for information of his whereabouts and safe return.

Anderson Cooper then proceeded to interview his elderly, mid-western parents, Ingva and Jonathan Arthur Willard Sr.. His father was crying, and holding on tightly to Indigo’s white, Persian, one-eyed cat, Mr. Pickles (more on Mr. Pickles in just a moment…)

Anderson: “Mrs. Willard, when was the last time you heard from your son?”

Ingva: (strong Norwegian accent, sobbing) “The last I spoke to my boy, he had started a new job with the MTA, and he was so excited to finally be employed full time and have health insurance… I don’t know why he would leave a job he was so excited to start. Our precious Jonathan Arthur has been such special, caring soul since the day I gave birth to him. He wouldn’t just leave without telling us where he was going; someone must have taken advantage of him.”

Anderson: “Mr. Willard, do you suppose there are any plausible places he could have gone?”

Mr. Willard: “Well given the time of year, I suppose he could have gone to Burning Man, and he did really liked this one bar in Chelsea called ‘Raw Hide’… he would talk about that place all the time.”

Anderson: “If your son, or anyone who knows where he is, is currently watching this, is there a message you have for them?”

Mr. Willard: “Son, just come home. We won’t be angry no matter where you are or what you’ve done. Mr. Pickles needs his daddy”.

CAMERA PANS IN TO A ONE-EYED MR. PICKLES, WHO LOOKS PATHETICALLY AT THE CAMERA LENS, AS THE MUSIC CUTS TO “ANGEL” BY SARAH MCLAUGHIN

It is then that Indigo went into such shock that he fainted at the bar.

Indigo woke up to Stamos slapping his face with an ice-cold, wet towel. Indigo opened his eyes, and his first words were, “Hey man, can I borrow your phone for a quick international call?” Stamos said, “sure, but it’s gonna cost ya’.” Stamos requested an additional 50 euros on top of the 80-euro gram of blow he’d secured from his dealer, Artemitis. Indigo forked over the cash and dialed up his parents using Stamos’s phone. The phone went straight to voicemail, since his parents were still at the CNN studio with Anderson Cooper. Indigo left a distraught voicemail which simply said: “Mommy, Daddy, I’m coming home to Mr. Pickles…. I love you all… kiss my baby for me.”

After that, Indigo made his way to the men’s room to do a couple of lines and set his head straight. He looked in the mirror at his beautiful, emaciated, tanned frame and hysterically started to cry…. “who have I become? My strangest friend? Everyone I know, goes away… in the ennndddd”

Indigo thought about poor, sweet, Mr. Pickles. He had stolen Mr. Pickles on the last morning of a three-day drug binge, from another socialite friend he used to have, named Annabelle de Barcelona. Mr. Pickles was already basically neglected, apart from the hired help that fed and groomed him. He had never had real love though. Indigo was high out of his fucking mind one morning, when he decided to change all of that. He wanted to be Mr. Pickles Daddy, and give him unconditional love for the rest of his cat life. Indigo didn’t even have to sneak Pickles out of his friend’s house, since she was knocked out, face-down on her own floor. He simply tucked Pickles under his arm, and made his way out the door that fateful morning, as the sun was rising over Manhattan, and made his way back to Williamsburg on the L train with Mr. Pickles in tow. Once he arrived home again, he proceeded to do copious amounts of molly, and then passed out on his couch, with several lines of MDMA laying on his coffee table.

Unfortunately, as he slept, Mr. Pickles licked several two lines of molly, apparently having a grand-mal seizure, and going blind in one eye. When Indigo woke from his slumber at 9pm that evening, he realized Mr. Pickles had a white, cloudy eye, and a hump in his back. Indigo was inconsolable having realized it was his own gross negligence that had caused this sad state of affairs. He couldn’t couldn’t forgive himself and punished himself by not eating and not drinking for a week straight. He vowed to better Mr. Pickles life in whatever ways he could, and that is why, 2 years ago, he surrendered Pickles to his parents so that Pickles could live out the remainder of his days on a farm in Iowa.

Indigo did a couple more lines to try to forget all of these bad memories, and then decided it was time to leave this bar. Indigo thought for a moment. “I’ve got to get home to Mr. Pickles and my parents… they need me and they miss me.” But then, he also thought, “holy shit, all of America has seen my face,” and so, in a moment of clarity, he thought “this is my only chance to get famous.” Indigo walked back out to the bar, ordered a spicy margarita, and started chatting with the bartender. The bartender mentioned that Lindsay Lohan had started filming a reality TV show with MTV involving her nightclub. Indigo had a brilliant idea – he could get famous by showing up at LiLo’s club while they were filming as the “missing American man” and totally steal the show! He decided to take a couple of shots of Jameson for gumption, and then called a cab to bring him to LiLo’s club.

Indigo Wren: At Sea

When we last left our boy Indigo, he was drifting out to sea off of the coast of Tulum, on a hand-made raft, with a Corona in hand (even though beer makes him bloated, and he would have preferred a cocktail), singing Jeff Buckley’s “Lilac Wine.” If you’ll recall, earlier that morning, Indigo awoke naked, alone and afraid on the beach after a 3-day bender, not knowing whether or not he had been sexually assaulted or quite how he had ended up on the beach. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened though, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The prior night, he had pulled a “Johnny Depp,” wherein he had smashed a champagne bottle on purpose, cut himself in the process, and wrote on the bathroom mirror of the club bathroom (in his own blood), “YOU LET BILLY BOB FUCK YOU!”, in reference to his ex-boyfriend (whom he happened to run into in the bathroom that night and whom had sparked this fit of rage/emotional breakdown).

Anyhow, it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life… and INDIGO IS FEELING GOOD, albeit a bit hungover. He’s feeling great – actually. You know why? He just discovered two grams of blow in his sock (that was the only item of clothing still on his body when he woke up earlier) that he forgot he had stolen from his friend the night before! Indigo is basically all set for whatever life throws at him now (or at least until the coke runs out and he crashes in a most epic way). Nothing could bring him down! Nothing of course except for his feelings of guilt, remorse, worthlessness, and despair over being 52 years of age and having no job, no money, no home, no friends, and barely any family. But who fucking cares about any of that nonsense when there are lines to be done?!

He didn’t have any straws or bills handy (obviously… he IS poor and almost naked), so he had to do bumps off of his hand. After the first couple of bumps, he rides that 15 minute high for all it’s worth, before deciding he needs a couple more. Indigo doesn’t stop doing bumps until his front teeth and nose are numb and his heart is beating life a jack rabbit trying to out-run a fox. Fucking vicious cycle, coke: you can never get enough once you start, and you’ll do every last bit once you have it.

Indigo knows that he has slowly been killing himself for years. Between the anorexia, binge-drinking, drug-doing, not-sleeping and level of stress he’s been running on, the prognosis for his future is no bueno. But what else is there to do? It’s a dog-eat-dog world, baby, and we’re all gonna die anyhow. Even the richest, smartest, prettiest, thinnest, and most loved people will all end up 6 feet under in the end… so why not have some temporary, feel-good fun when they opportunity presents itself?

Please don’t think too poorly of him though – Indigo wasn’t always this way. For a while, in his late twenties, he was able to keep his shit together to some extent and maintain some level of dignity. But, it’s a hard-knock life when no one loves you, you’re a freak of nature who may, or may not, have mild Asperger’s syndrome, un-diagnosed ADHD, insomnia, anorexia, and addiction issues – most of which are the result of being abused as a child and abandoned by those you counted on the most… but I digress. Life isn’t kind to fragile things, and Indigo was a fragile thing. But enough of that – this is getting way too personal for Indigo.

After the first gram of blow disappeared up his nose, Indigo feared for his life, as his heart raced faster and faster, his palms began to sweat, and he couldn’t think in a coherent train of thought for more than 5 seconds. He began to panic when he realized he had no cell phone, and no one around to hear his cry for help if he was, in fact, in the midst of a heart attack. He was now 3 miles off the coast of Tulum on a homemade raft. He didn’t know what else to do at this point… so he did more coke.

Boredom was getting the best of him – the idle mind is truly the Devil’s playground, especially for a junkie. As he spiraled deeper into his coke high, he began to focus on terrible things – things he couldn’t change or control, things from the past, present, and the future: the last 10 lbs he just couldn’t lose, no matter how much he starved himself, the ex-boyfriend he couldn’t make love him or be faithful to him, no matter how perfect he tried to be, the jobs he couldn’t keep, because he just didn’t give a fuck enough to go to work in the morning, the parents who were getting older and in a nursing home which he couldn’t provide-for or be there for, all the friends and lovers he had wronged along the way, the people he had ghosted, the people who had wronged him, the lies he told, the promises he broke… the list goes on. Indigo was broken on the inside, and no amount of coke was going to fix that; neither was any amount of alcohol, vacation, weight loss, plastic surgery, or money. He was a lost cause – a shell of a human with only a rotting, remnant of a soul in the cavern of his dark heart. Hopeless and alone.

But the world keeps turning, and, for now, he was stuck on that raft, alone and adrift at sea. A metaphor for his entire life really.

Night fell, the coke was gone, and Indigo was coming down HARD. He was crying and singing “On My Own” from Les Miserables, considering throwing himself to the sharks, when he saw a light on the horizon in the distance. He liked to imagine himself a young Eponine from Les Mis – eternally wallowing in unrequited love. Anyhow, he felt like he was about to die of despair, or of the coke sweats, when he saw a light on the horizon. A cruise ship! He waited to see which way the ship was headed – no point in screaming if it wasn’t coming towards him.

Alas, it was coming towards him! The lights were getting brighter, and bigger! The ship was slowly coming into view. This was his chance at salvation! He began to scream over the waves, “HELP! HELP ME!” By now, he was delusional, mind-fucked in a bad way, and totally regretting his decision to sail out to sea alone. He realized he didn’t actually want to die – he wanted to live, and he needed help. He needed a LOT of help.

The boat came closer and closer, and his screams and pleas for help became more and more frantic. Someone on deck spotted him and rang the bell for help. A lifesaver was tossed overboard in his direction, and he abandoned his homemade raft and swam towards it with all his remaining willpower.

They hoisted Indigo up to deck, all 130 lbs. of his 6’1″ frame, once he was safely in the lifesaver. He was dehydrated as fuck, delusional, still coming down from the blow, sun burnt, and emaciated. Despite the fact that everyone around him was worried about his health and well-being, having just been rescued at sea, he felt pretty sexy. He was so thin and beautiful from the dehydration that he almost didn’t want to drink the water they offered him, for fear of enshrouding his jutting hip bones and clavicle in a layer of water retention. He resisted at first, but they insisted he go to the ship’s medical center where they administered a couple of IVs and he quickly gained back the 12 lbs. in water weight that he had lost.

Anyhow, the ship he climbed aboard was headed to Miami. But Indigo hated Miami with a passion, and so he made a vow to himself to find a better ship. Fuck Miami man. The crew alerted the National Guard and the media about having found, and consequently picked up, a man floating in the Atlantic. They supplied Indigo with a low-cost cabin and card so that he could use the ship’s dining facilities, etc.. Indigo made his way to the nicest bar he could find and stalked out a well-dressed gay couple. That was his next meal ticket.

Indigo shimmied his way through the crowd to the handsome duo parked at the bar and introduced himself as the resident stowaway. Obviously they loved him – who the fuck wouldn’t?! They asked him if they could buy him a drink, and he said “yes darling, Cristal.” And so, Indigo spent the rest of the night wooing, entertaining, and serenading this gay couple with bullshit stories of his past while they supplied him with round after round of Cristal and occasional trips to the men’s room to imbibe in some blow. Around 3 a.m., the bartender told them he had to close the bar down for the night, and the couple invited Indigo back to their suite – for a nightcap.

Once back at their luxury suite, alcohol (and the second coke comedown he was experiencing in 48 hours) overtook Indigo. He started acting TOTALLY inappropriately, making offensive jokes about any and every minority you can think of. When one half of the gay couple would have their back turned to him, either making another round of mixed drinks, or if one of them was in the bathroom, Indigo would make blow job gestures at the other half of the couple. This obviously got the couple very excited and so they put on Marvin Gaye, and changed into their negligees. At this point, Indigo woke up and smelled the coffee… he wasn’t about this life. No fucking way. Indigo was no one’s fucking unicorn, OK?! He was never the third party to a threesome… that shit just didn’t fly with him and he had to get the FUCK OUT.

He got very weird-ed out, and had to make an escape. He went on a tirade and exploded, saying “WTF?! You think I’M GAY??? I’m BI… ALRIGHT?! ACTUALLY, I LIKE WOMEN…. YOU THINK I’M GAY??? I AM SO SO SO OFFENDED…. I am gonna be sick…” He stormed out of the cabin and slammed the door behind him. He honestly did feel very ill though, given the amount of booze and coke he had consumed, and he didn’t want to be alone in his delicate condition. Luckily, Indigo ran into a Filipino kitchen worker leaving the cafeteria on his way back to his cabin in steerage. He struck up a conversation about how much he loved tonight’s Brazilian themed dinner spread, and went back to the Filipino boy’s cabin for the night. He collapsed on the twin-size bed and broke down sobbing. The kitchen worker rubbed his back and hugged him, trying to soothe him with words of comfort as he continued to sob and babbled on about how alone he was in this world. Eventually, he cried himself dry. Indigo fell asleep getting spooned by the 5’2″ kitchen worker… nothing to see here folks. He just needed a good cuddle and a good cry – sometimes we all do.

The next day, Indigo woke up alone in bed. He looked over at the alarm clock on the night stand – 2pm. He got out of bed and found a note that the kitchen worker had left him:

“Indigo – you are such a beautiful soul. I enjoyed your company last night and hope you are feeling better today after a restful night of sleep. I left some coffee in the pot for you, and some homemade honey buns. I left you the keys to my cabin in case you want to hang out here while I’m working. Hoping I can see you later. XOXO, Fernando.”

Indigo felt ashamed and embarrassed of his drunken behavior. He was in such a vulnerable position last night though, having not slept for two days straight and in the midst of a major comedown. He decided Fernando could be a good person to know while on this ship, and so he decided he would see him again that night.

Indigo rifled around Fernando’s cabin, and found a couple of $20s, which he quickly pocketed. He left the cabin wearing Fernando’s clothes – which were 3 times too small for his 6’1″ frame. His t-shirt was up to his belly button, and the Bermuda shorts he put on were basically diaper length on his long legs. He looked at himself in the mirror before leaving: “Damn sexy!” he said out loud, before he sashayed out of the cabin and walked upstairs to the bar on deck.

He ordered two Bloody Mary’s and a shot of vodka. No better way to start the day! He was in vacation mode being on a cruise ship and whatnot. After he got his swagger on, he meandered down deck to the hot tub / pool area, which full of old people and children. He got very dirty looks from all of the parents and geriatrics …. I guess they just didn’t understand what real fashion is.

He swaggered over to the hot tub, which was full of 65-year-old white men with hair coming out of their ears and belly buttons. “Mind if I join you boys for a soak?” Indigo said, as he lowered himself into the water. He got a few sideways glances, and a couple of the men left the hot tub. Indigo called over a waiter and ordered another Bloody Mary and a shot of vodka. He sunk deeper into the hot water so just his neck and head were out, relaxing in a state of complete bliss. His eyes slowly closed… he was so relaxed…he fell fast asleep in the water. The next thing he knew, he woke up to angry screams. His eyes jumped open to see the other men who were in the hot tub with him scrambling out. He looked around and saw a large turd floating in the water next to him. Oopsie… he was so relaxed he had accidentally relieved himself in the hot tub! Indigo climbed out and looked around – everyone was staring at him with looks of disgust and anger. A pool boy quickly walked over to Indigo and told him he was no longer welcome in the pool area. He was too embarrassed to argue, so he wrapped a towel around his waist and left.

He decided to check out the VIP cocktail lounge, “The Captain’s Club.” Indigo still had a towel wrapped around his waist and his 3x-too-small crop top on, and he was barefoot when he sauntered into the VIP lounge. The lounge was pretty busy with the lunch crowd when he entered; there were a lot of older women dressed in Pucci with Chanel or Birkin bags, and older gentleman wearing Gucci loafers and smart jackets. They were all casually sipping on martinis or champagne and enjoying a gourmet meal. All eyes turned to Indigo when he walked in. He felt like a model on the catwalk as he sashayed through the crowed of diners.

He moseyed right past the maitre d’ and belly-ed on up to the bar (literally – his bare belly was rubbing against the counter). “May I help you sir?” said the bartender rather indignantly. “Yes, I’d like a pickle back and a Bloody Mary, extra spicy please.” The bartender informed Indigo he could not serve him while he was barefoot and wearing a towel. Indigo was about to open his mouth to argue, when someone tapped his shoulder. He turned around and the maitre d’ was behind him. “My apologies sir, but there is a strict dress code we have to enforce in the VIP lounge. I’m afraid you must have on shoes and pants to be served or seated in here.” Now it was Indigo’s turn to become indignant. “Are you accosting me because I am gay? Discriminating against me because of my sexual orientation?! I’d like to speak to your manager!” Everyone had stopped eating and was staring at the scene unfolding in front of the bar. The maitre d’ walkied for the manager, and the manager walked out of the kitchen doors and over to Indigo. “Sir, I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience this may impose on you, but we really cannot have customers walking around barefoot and wearing towels in this area of the ship. You’re more than welcome to go upstairs to the pool bar dressed like this, but you’re going to have to leave here until you’re dressed in proper attire.” Indigo hadn’t been this publicly shamed since the night he was turned away from 1Oak twelve years ago in front of a crowd that included Lindsay Lohan and Brandon Davis.

Indigo exploded: “You’re all fucking losers! A bunch of corporate, 9-5 assholes who don’t know what real art, fashion, fun or life actually is! I’d show all of you mother fuckers how to have a good time – if you were worth it! But you’re lame, boring, paid fucks who get off on money and and ugly fucking Chanel jackets. Go cry into your piles of money – you might be wearing $2,000 jackets and carrying Birkins, but you’re old, ugly, and fucking vanilla, BITCHESSSS!”

And with that, two security guards were called and promptly escorted Indigo to a holding cell where he was locked up below deck. Indigo was pretty drunk from all of the Bloody Marys he had consumed at this point, and so he took a nap since he had nothing better to do. He was awoken by the sound of someone calling his name, “Indigo! Indigo! It’s me, Fernando – they sent me down here with your dinner. I made you some rice and beans and that feijoada you liked so much at dinner last night!” Indigo was so happy to see little Fernando standing outside of his cell. “Fernando! I’m so happy to see you – you’ve got to help me get out of here – I have no idea why they locked me up!” “Oh, hunny… I hear you misbehaving very badly at the pool and in The Captain’s Lounge! People talking…”.

“Fernando, babe, just help me get out of here… I don’t have any money, but I can give you something else 😉 “. And so, Indigo gave Fernando a quality BJ through the bars of his cell, and in return, Fernando sneaked the key to the holding cell off of the wall in the officer’s office and released Indigo from the cell. By now, it was midnight, and most people had retreated to their cabins. Fernando invited Indigo back to his cabin for the night.

Indigo couldn’t remain on this ship though, now that everyone was against him. He especially couldn’t end up in Miami, which is where the ship was due to dock the next morning. He decided his only hope was jumping ship. And so, indigo stole a couple bottles of Vodka from Fernando’s mini fridge after Fernando was passed out on his cot. He put on another t-shirt and shorts that belonged to Fernando (again, 3x too small), and headed up to deck. He made his way around deck to where the lifeboats where hanging, and climbed into one. He wasn’t quite sure how to work the rigging, but luckily, he had brought along a large knife he confiscated from the kitchen. He cut the ropes on either side and the boat smashed down about 10 feet to the water. He was a free man again.

Indigo sailed off into the night, sipping from his bottle of Tito’s and imagining his new life in Paris… because he was determined to get there come hell or high water.

The Tale of Indigo Wren: The Last Hipster Standing

In additional to cooking and bitching about my life, I also like to write short stories and comics… this one I’m very proud of… hits close to home.

I haven’t finished the pictures yet, but here is the text to my newest short story….

*** DISCLAIMER*** THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY BASED ON NO ONE AND/OR NO INCIDENTS IN PARTICULAR, AND IT IS ESPECIALLY NOT BASED ON MY OWN LIFE… BUT I KIND OF WISH IT WAS…

THE TALE OF INDIGO WREN: THE LAST HIPSTER STANDING

Indigo Wren was one of the first settlers to move to Williamsburg in the late 90’s, when all there was, was a corner-store bodega that sold 40s through bullet-proof glass, and you risked getting knifed if you were out after 7 p.m.. These were the days of milk and honey – long before Apple and Whole foods moved onto Bedford Ave., and before multi-million dollar high-rises took over the waterfront. Indigo staked his claim as the original hipster, and moved into an illegal apartment – a loft in an old warehouse – the only one still standing in the year 2019.

Now, at the seasoned age of 52, Indigo looks back fondly on the days of yore – a.k.a. any time pre-2004. Ah yes! The days when rent was only $500 a month, there were no bridge & tunnel kids, no European tourists, no condos, and no fucking yuppies… life was good then. Back then, you could go to a real warehouse party – the kind where you weren’t charged $75 just to enter, there were certainly no models and bottles, and where you had to crawl through a literal hole in a wall to enter. And, the drugs, oh the drugs! Back then drugs were still legit. You would blow your load if someone blew on your skin… they just don’t make parties or drugs like that now.

Alas, Indigo now finds himself at a cross-roads. When his rent increased to $1,000 in 2005, Indigo’s parents consented to help him out and pay half. However, Indigo’s parents have recently entered a retirement home, he still only works part-time as a performance artiste and a hair artiste, and now his landlord is being bought-out by a new development that plans to build condos priced for Wall Street bros and Russian hos. Life is no bueno…

Now, what’s a boy like Indigo going to do?! Indigo racks his brain for ideas: he tries to sell his plasma, but is turned away because he doesn’t meet the minimum weight requirement. He tries to sell his sperm, but is also turned away by the sperm bank after testing positive for narcotics, and because no one wants sperm from a 52 year old man with a liberal arts degree from a community college. He tries to donate blood, but is also turned away after he says he occasionally engages in homosexual intercourse in the bathrooms of the Knitting Factory, after becoming inebriated… of course (Sssshhh… don’t tell his boyfriend!).

Hair cutting isn’t gonna pay the bills; and neither is his performance art, which involves getting naked on stage and rubbing cloves of garlic over his scrotum, while chanting “OOooommm Shanti” (can you say ‘tres avant garde’?!). In a moment of poser-weakness and desperation, he asks a friend working at a monastery in the Catskills if he can come live, study and work for free as the Gong Boy. Sadly, his friend says the position for Gong Guru has been filled by a 26 year old girl with a tight ass and trust fund.

Down to the wire now, with only 30 days before he needs to have vacated his loft, Indigo is at a loss for ideas. He has too many neck tattoos to work a corporate job. Besides, you can’t get one of those unless you graduated Ivy League, or mommy and daddy know someone. He can’t work as a waiter, because his anorexia prevents him from dealing with food, other than his weekly intake of one taco-cart quesadilla. Alone in his apartment, he diligently scours Craigslist applying to job after job, using his neighbor’s WiFi, and doing occasional bumps of coke to boost moral.

Listen, we all have our vices, and I’m pretty sure it’s OK to spend $100 a week on blow when you only spend $8 a week on a taco-cart quesadilla…. anyhow. Indigo relentlessly applies to job after job – he stays up for 56 hours straight because he’s so stressed, and also because he has done so much coke, before he finally crashes in a state of complete exhaustion. He has applied to so many jobs at this point, he can’t even remember where or what he has applied for.

The next day, Indigo wakes up with a mouth as parched as the desert, a half-eaten hamburger on his nightstand, hungover as fuck, and in the midst of a major coke comedown. After downing 2 liters of tap water, he checks his AOL email account and sees that a recruiter from the MTA wants him to come in for an interview. Whatever, he has no pride or options left now. He decides to go for it, and sets up an interview for 1 p.m. the next day.

Indigo spends three hours planning the PERFECT interview outfit. He decides on a pair of teenage girl’s black, super-skinny jeans, suspenders, a white button-down, which he will wear buttoned-down to his navel, a coke-spoon necklace (sterling silver, dahling), and a plaid fedora from Goran Brothers. Oh, and Jeffrey Campbell platforms. He arrives to his interview 20 minutes late, and fucking kills it! He gets an offer on the spot, and agrees to start tomorrow (hey… MTA has to meet a diversity quota too).

Indigo arrives to work the next day, 1 hour late, extremely hungover from celebrating his new job the day before, and dressed totally inappropriately. He decided to wear a neon-yellow pair of coveralls from his days as a 24-year old raver, a train conductor’s hat (very Burning Man/Steampunk chic), a rosary (don’t ask…),, and some platform sneakers (for comfort). Everyone laughs at him when he shows up. He gets a write-up for taking a smoke break on the L train platform only 20 minutes into the job, and no one wants to sit with him at lunch. It’s basically like he’s in 6th grade all over again.

Indigo decides to leave work an hour early so he can go out for happy hour margaritas with his boo (they’ve been on-again-off-again for the last 8 years or so). He goes to his boyfriend’s apartment and puts on his sexiest underwear to surprise him when he gets home from his job. Indigo goes looking for some sparklers they keep in the kitchen cupboard (he wants to play bottle waitress), when 3 condoms fall out of a trinket box he was looking through. His throat gets tight and he feels himself begin to burn from the inside out with rage, disgust, and a sadness so profoundly deep he hopes you never have to feel it. His heart begins to race and his palms become moist with perspiration.

Indigo decides he is going to maintain control over his emotions and play it cool until his boyfriend gets home. He decides to wait to confront him… after all, this must be some kind of mistake. They’ve been exclusive for 8 years! He lays the condoms out on the coffee table and proceeds to drink two bottles of champagne to his face while he waits – to settle his nerves, as one is wont to do.

He waits another 30 minutes and as soon as his boyfriend walks through the door he explodes, throwing the condoms and a glass of champagne into his face. Naturally, his boyfriend attempts to gaslight him with some bullshit excuse, but this is the last straw for Indigo, the straw that broke this lil’ camel’s back!

Indigo storms out wearing only a thong, 7″ platforms, and a silk kimono. He calls his side-piece, a 25 year old burner named Cricket Avolon, and they go to happy hour to score some $5 margs. One thing leads to another, and they order 3 grams of coke, some special K, and a few ecstasy pills for the road. They end up at Cipriani, where they both blow the same hedge fund bro in return for a meal and some champagne, before making their way to The Box to see some girls piss in martini glasses and drink their own piss on stage. Finally, they end up at the crack-den that is Members Only circa 2016.

Indigo forgets what day it is, he forgets he has a new job and bills to pay and rent payment to make, and he forgets that he is broke. He stays out until 1 pm the next day, and then crashes at his dealer’s house somewhere… who knows where really. When he wakes up at 9 pm the next night, he has 20 missed phone calls and 6 voicemails from his job and his parents. He pops a couple of xanex before heading back to his apartment, to ease the comedown of it all. He decides he will fix things with work tomorrow.

Indigo is still coming down from his near OD the day before, and emotionally deranged from his personal problems at home. Nevertheless, he persisted. He pulls himself up by the nipple rings, puts on some guy-liner and scented body glitter, pops a couple of addies, and marches off to work as though nothing ever happened. HR calls him in immediately and terminates him on the spot. He doesn’t even argue, he just leaves with a new plan brewing… this ain’t his first rodeo and it won’t be his last… he is used to these things happening to him by now.

He’s given up working dead-end jobs, and he hates this awful, fucking city where everyone is fake as fuck, consumed with greed, living on someone else’s hard earned dime and therefore has the luxury to pursue artistic adventures for little to no pay, or just an anorexic escort. He calls up Cricket Avolon and he invites Indigo to go to Tulum with him. Out of other options, and thinking he can probably score a sugar daddy (or mommy) and some quality blow, Indigo agrees. He packs light – a sombrero, some adderall, and a few thongs. His landlord can go fuck himself and charge some other naive loser way too much money to live in the shitty fucking dungeon of a loft that he has called home for the past 23 years.

After arriving in Tulum, Indigo convinces all of his trust fund friends to bring him to an elite party, where he proceeds to get mega, fucking TRASHED. He runs into his ex-boyfriend in the ladies room… powdering their noses. He ends up making a total scene and breaking a Dom Perignon bottle over the sink before threatening his ex with the broken end. He accidentally cuts himself in the process, and decides now is the right time to pull a Johnny Depp, and writes a message in blood on the mirror: “You let Billy Bob f*ck You!”. He is quickly escorted out by security, while shouting to everyone who can hear him “I’ll show you what a REAL fucking party is!!!”

Indigo wakes up penniless, naked and alone on the beach. He thinks he may have been sexually assaulted, but he doesn’t know for sure. He spends all afternoon building a raft out of the palm fronds and drift wood that litter the beach. The last anyone ever sees of Indigo Wren, he is floating out to sea on his raft with a corona, singing “Lilac Wine,” by Jeff Buckley…

And that, my friends, is the story of Indigo Wren, the last hipster standing.