My Summer of Love – the Real Story

I’m a regular reader of the Guardian, and a couple of weeks ago I happened to come across a call for readers to submit stories about “their summer of love” romances. I was bored at work with time to kill, and I had just celebrated eight years with my boyfriend and felt compelled to submit my own story about the summer of 2013.

I thoroughly enjoyed typing out the full story about my wild summer of 2013 and was really excited when I finally hit the ‘submit’ button, although I instantly regretted not having saved what I wrote, since I entered the text directly on the Guardian’s website. I texted my boyfriend to let him know I submitted the story of how we met and that I would die if they actually published it.

The full story was probably about three pages long when all was said and done, with all of the scandalous details and humor that make for good reading. I was very proud of the piece that I entered and also felt nostalgic with the sweet memories fresh in my brain.

About two weeks went by, which was just enough time for me to have forgotten that I submitted the story, when I woke up this past Monday morning to an email an editor at the Guardian. I was so stoked that even though it was 7:30am, I woke up my boyfriend, whom was sleeping next to me, to tell him the good news. The editor stated they would need to edit my piece to be shorter in length, and THIS IS WHAT THEY ENDED UP PUBLISHING.

Don’t get me wrong – Its really cool to have my little story and our picture on my favorite news site…it’s actually fucking awesome. But the integrity of the original story was stripped since they had to edit out the bulk of the story itself. They basically just summarized the larger story I originally entered, and added sentences that were not even there to begin with. Like honestly, do you think I would ever use the phrase “…my heart fluttered”? I’m not mad, just disappointed I guess, because the little ditty that was posted sounds corny as hell. Here is the real story of my ‘summer of love’:


Before we get to the summer of 2013, I have to provide a bit of background. I moved to NYC in Fall 2012 as a hopeful 24-year old with big dreams. I had saved enough money working as a manager at Hollister and living at home for the past two years, that I didn’t need to have a job lined up before I moved to the city. I planned to pursue writing and/or work in theatre (which I did do, to some extent), but after a couple of months, my savings was running low and I needed an actual job to pay rent. During this time, my college romance of almost 3-years was on it’s last legs. We had been doing long-distance for the better part of the three years we’d been together, and moving to the city was a new start for me.

One of my sister’s friends hooked me up with a job at Highline Ballroom (a now-defunct, mid-sized, concert venue/late-night club on weekends) since she was friends with the owner. I was hired as a server, and my first shift was in early December 2012. I was nervous as fuck – I’d never been a server before, and I certainly didn’t go out to clubs back then. I didn’t know what to expect when I walked into my first shift, dressed in the requisite ‘all black’ outfit that I’d just purchased earlier that day at Forever 21. One of the first people I met was the manager, who helped me with my paper work and showed me around the venue. Immediately off the bat, I found him (and his Italian accent) incredibly attractive, and I probably became nervously shy as I didn’t want to look like an idiot – doing or saying the wrong thing – in front of someone I found hot.

As the days at working at Highline turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, I gradually warmed up to some of the servers I worked with and even came to enjoy certain aspects of working as a server. It was really cool to get to see some of the better bands that were booked play free of charge, as I waited tables. Some highlights were once serving Jack White a Stella, and a show I worked where Zedd (who was just beginning his career, and who I am also convinced was high on E at the time) told me I have beautiful eyes. I also always enjoyed doing hospitality for the bands, because that usually meant left over booze after they’d cleared the greenroom at the end of the night.

It was a fun job at times, or at least the kind of job where you and your coworkers have fun together, as you commiserate about how shitty the job can be and support one another through all of the personal struggles everyone brings to work each day. All of us servers were around the same age, and this was a temporary job as we pursued various other passions – music, makeup, acting, etc. Someone was always crying in the ladies room pre-shift, or having a break down in the back hallway by the lockers. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

As the job wore on, it also became evident, that it wasn’t going to be enough to cover my rent and bills. There were some weeks with 3 or 4 dark days (this means no shows scheduled and therefore the venue is closed) and I’d only have two shifts that week. Some concerts (seated jazz shows, for example) I could make bank in tips ($250 a night was a good night for me… I know some servers reading this right now will scoff at this, but for me, that was a great night). Other shows (hip-hop, standing-room-only shows, for example), were absolutely atrocious to work, and I might walk away with only $25 in cash tips. Please keep in mind that I was also only making an hourly rate of $5. Yes – you read that right: $5….

On the shitty nights, when we’d all busted our asses and chased after tables who tried to leave without paying, only to make $30 in cash tips, we (the servers and a couple of bartenders and bar-backs) would all go out to one of two local watering holes on 14th Street: McKenna’s, where they had a great buy-1-get-1 special until midnight, or Woody’s. What else are you going to do with $30 in tips? In NYC, that is basically enough to buy maybe two days worth of groceries, but after such a rough night at work, buying a few rounds of drinks so you could forget how shitty your life was for a while, was a much higher priority.

Early on during these group outings, I remember trying to casually get more information on the hot manager. “Do you know if he’s single?” I’d casually ask one of the servers who had been working there longer than me. The response, or general consensus rather, was that he was most likely hooking up with one of the bartenders (** he denies to this day that there were never anything other than friends, to which I still say “Sure, Jan”***). Anyhow, this was not the response I was looking for, but then again I was still in a relationship myself, at the time. My sister’s friend, who had set me up with job, also inquired if there were any hot guys I worked with. I told her “not really, apart from one of my managers.” She had worked for the company at one of their other venues before having a baby, so I asked if she knew who the Italian manager at Highline was. Unfortunately, she’d left a few months before he’d started, so she had no idea. It seemed impossible to get the information I was looking for…. I needed to know more about this man!

By late winter of 2013, I had broken up with my ex-boyfriend for good, started fostering two feral cats (yes, they were legit feral and one hid under my bed all day), and I was officially struggling to make ends meet on my shitty server’s salary. I was literally going hungry, because I didn’t have enough money to pay rent and buy groceries, so I became pretty emaciated living on a bag of frozen peas and some rice one week, and a loaf of Wonder bread the next. It’s comical now to look back on, but there was nothing funny about only having enough cash to buy either coffee creamer or a roll of paper towels because I couldn’t afford both. I already had to call my parents a few times to help me with rent, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell them I also didn’t have enough money for groceries either, so I just made due with what little I had.

It was around this time that I started having brief conversations with the hot manager as I lit candles during pre-shift, or, if there was a lull in work while the concert was in full-throttle, we would chat in the service station at the end of the bar. How I cherished these brief interactions! I would replay them in my head long after the fact, wondering what he thought of me, or if he might find me attractive as well. He asked me about my writing and the blog I kept at the time, he asked me what I felt about the Lesbian slam poet we had performing one night – he generally seemed to take an interest in what I thought and felt, and I really appreciated that. He would later admit that he read my blog from start to finish, going back several years in entries, because he wanted to know more about me and my life. At the time, I didn’t think he’d ever like a girl like me… short, quiet, nerdy, not exactly a ‘cool’ girl, and certainly someone who never went to clubs or parties (back then, at least….).

How could he? He worked in nightlife where he was surrounded by hot women – whether it was the bottle servers who were signed with modeling agencies, or the burlesque dancer who performed in nothing more than sequin pasties and a G-string during late nights. Never in a million years, did I think that he would like me when I physically compared myself to the other girls working there. But this was just my 25-year old lack of self-esteem getting the best of me. Self-doubt is a real bitch.

I was absolutely elated one night, when he asked me if I’d like to start hostessing during the late-night parties, in addition to serving during regular shows. I definitely needed more money, and it would be a chance to wear a sexy dress and heels instead of the regular black jeans and boots I wore while serving, and fucking loathed. He later confessed he asked me work late-night because he wanted to get to know me better and spend more time with me, but back then I was convinced he knew I was poor and just felt sorry for me.

Keep in mind that through all of this time, I was still convinced I had no chance with him. Also keep in mind that I was newly single, and finally making up for lost time. My last relationship had also been my first, and I’d never had the opportunity to be single in such a big city with so many hot men. I’d also never really been on proper dates, since my ex boyfriend and I met as two broke college students . NYC was my oyster for a few months, and I was living it up. Until the dating scene got the best of me and chewed me up only to spit me out again.

It was really easy to meet people as a single woman, working in a concert venue/nightclub, and I threw myself into the dating scene. But I quickly learned, that many New York men are dickbags, and became disillusioned with the whole scene just as quickly as I had initially been intoxicated by it. I got pissed when a guy I was casually dating didn’t text for almost an entire weekend when he went to a friend’s wedding with a date who was really pretty (I stalked that bitch on Facebook and my heart fell thinking of them hooking up). There was the hot Israeli musician who did sound check at the concert venue, who took me out for drinks and bragged about all the hot models he’d banged at the Day & Night brunch parties. That left a bad taste in my mouth. There was the the shaggy, blonde-haired French guy that I went on several dates with who just disappeared into thin air after I was unable to see him one night. That one almost destroyed me for some reason….

I think a lot of the turmoil and angst also had to do with how depressing my life was for a while there. I lived alone with two foster cats that wouldn’t even let me pet them. I barely made enough money to pay rent and feed myself and was shelling out what little cash I did have on expensive food for the two foster cats who both had digestive issues (explosive, insanely smelly diarrhea). I would come home from working at the club to an empty apartment at 2 a.m. and often cry because of how stressed I was over money and how lonely I felt at night. The one constant I did have to look forward to each week, was getting dressed up to work as a hostess and see the hot manager, even if it was only as we stood next to each other at the podium in the lobby of the venue chatting.

Towards the end of Spring 2013, Christian (yes, he has a name) would often ask me if I’d like to grab a drink at the end of my shift, once I was cut for the night and before taking a cab back home to Brooklyn. I remember this literally being a magical experience (even though we’d basically be screaming into each other’s ears to have any sort of conversation over the insanely loud club music) as we stood at bar-left and each had a gin and tonic or glass of Prosseco. I remember one particular evening, a remix of Lana del Rey’s ‘Summertime Sadness’ blasting, as confetti dropped from the rafters, and drunk club-goers squeezed around and in back of us passing by. That’s when it really hit me – I had butterflies in my stomach and a major crush on this man.

He would later admit that just as I thought I had no chance with him, he also thought he had absolutely no chance with me. We both had crushes on each other from day one but both thought it would never happen for whatever reasons we told our selves. A couple of weeks after this magical moment at bar-left, he finally asked me out on a date – well, at least it kind of sounded like a date?! It was a bit unclear, since he told me I could bring a friend or even two friends. I remember we were standing at bar-right during pre-shift when he casually asked if I’d like to go on a sailboat tour of New York Harbor, and then added that I was welcome to bring a friend. I was quite confused in that moment – did he want or expect me to bring a friend? Maybe he only wanted to be friends with me and that’s why he suggested that I bring a third party? I said ‘yes’ to the boat trip right on the spot, and then pondered as to whom I could drag along, if anyone. After thinking it over for a day, I decided that this was MY chance to make a move, and determined I would bring no one – I wanted him to myself.

The night before our first date, happened to be the 4th of July, and we both happened to be working at a Verboten party (a rave, for those who are un-familar) that the venue had booked. Now, this particular event happened to go from about 10pm to 6am, and every patron is either rolling balls on MDMA or drinking their ass off. It is already a really difficult party to work if you’re into this type of music and scene, since you cannot partake in the fun and games. It is also extra hard working events or parties that fall on national holidays – it seems like everyone but you is out celebrating and having a good time and you start to feel really sorry for yourself.

As the night wore on, I guess several of the other servers and bartenders were also feeling sorry for themselves for having to work on this particular night, because several rounds of shots and/or drinks made their way from behind the bar to service station at the end of the bar for us to knock back on the sly. By the time the lights came up and the patrons had left, I was pretty fucking buzzed…or drunk, rather. I had to keep it together enough to do my receipts and tips checkout with Christian, before taking a $25 cab back to Brooklyn, as the sun was coming up and it was already hotter than the hubs of Hell. I remember I ordered a burger from Bad Burger, a 24/7 burger joint in Williamsburg, because I was drunk and starving after a long night of working. I got home, devoured half of my burger, threw the other half on the floor for my foster cats to enjoy, and passed out, fully-clothed and with my makeup still on, on my couch.

I woke up at high-noon, my mouth as parched as the Sahara and reeking of Jameson and Fireball. I was pretty fucking hungover, and all I could think about was how sloppy I’d been the night before. I prayed my manager would still even want to take me out on a date, and knew I had to redeem myself by looking extra good. I remember enlisting the help of my fashion-savvy sister to help me pick out the perfect date ensemble that afternoon: I wore a strapless, navy blue bodysuit and seersucker shorts from American Apparel, and a cool pair of wedges my sister loaned me.

I called both my mom and my cousin as I walked from the subway at 14th street to the Gansevoort Hotel, where I was meeting Christian. I confessed to my mom that I was going on a date with my older manager, but swore up and down that I was not going to so much as kiss him, lest things turn awkward at work. I believe I also told my cousin the same thing… I’m not sure who I was really trying to convince though: them, or myself…

The date went down in history as the most perfect date of all time. We had a gin and tonic each on the rooftop of the Gansevoort hotel, than took a chartered sunset sail around New York Harbor, during which Prosecco was freely doled out by the staff. When the boat docked again around 9:30pm, we were the last ones off the boat and pretty tipsy. We took a cab across town to a wine bar, where we had a charcuterie and cheese board and wine, then after that, we took another cab downtown to a second wine bar, Another Room. It was here that we started discussing painting, friended each other on Facebook, kissed for the first time, and Christian told me that he was a painter himself. He asked if I’d like to go see some of his artwork, at his apartment, which conveniently happened to be a short, three minute walk from this wine bar. Now that is clever planning!

I was on a roll myself now – high on adrenaline, wine and those butterflies in my stomach. The last few months of dating had been so shitty and had broken me down so much, that I really felt I had nothing more to lose at this point. I felt liberated! ‘Fuck it,’ I thought to myself. Whatever happens, happens. And so I went over to his apartment (to see his paintings, of course) and then I spent the night.

Because nothing in my life ever goes smoothly, because I never seem to have any actual down time, and because I am a glutton for punishment, I awoke in his bed to an 8 a.m. phone call from my sister, wondering when I was coming over to help set up for my niece’s first birthday party. We got up, he hailed me a cab, and I hightailed it back to Brooklyn, where I was gainfully employed running errands in the all-ready-86-degree weather. I was slightly hungover and had my baby niece in tow, booking it down Bedford Avenue, pushing my niece in the stroller, with a shit load of helium balloons trailing behind us, as I secreted red wine from my pores and still felt high on happiness from last night. I was elated when he texted me later that day to say he had an amazing time and couldn’t wait to see me at work later that night (yes, we both worked another party that same night).

It’s hard to believe that eight years have gone by since this particular summer. Like all couples, we have had our fair share of ups and downs. Lots of water has passed under the bridge over the course of eight years – there have been some pretty heated fights, a near constant level of insanity on both parties’ behalf, a lot of love, some general hate thrown in for good measure, a ton of fun and memorable moments, the stresses of daily life and work, and a lot of personal growth for the both of us. Eight years seems like a century sometimes – I mean it has been most of my adult life. But it also seems to have passed by in the blink of an eye. It’s crazy to think that fate brought us together in that shitty fucking venue, and even crazier to think that the feelings of attraction were mutual at first sight on the day we met back in December 2012. Every time I hear a song from the summer of 2013, whether it’s Daft Punk’s ‘Get Lucky’ or Lana del Rey’s ‘Summertime Saddness,’ I am immediately transported back to bar left, sipping on my gin and tonic, screaming over the music to be heard, and falling in love all over again.

A Short Story – Written Dec 2013

Once upon a time in the land of a million hopes and a billion lost dreams, there lived a small, fragile girl   with big, icey-grey eyes, icey-blonde hair, and enough falsely contrived charm to captivate and entrance even the coldest of hearts.  She turned heads walking down the street, turned heads on the subway, and was never at a loss for dates out at the expense of whatever boy she was currently letting pursue her.    She lived with her boyfriend of five years in a tiny apartment in the East Village, and regularly cheated on him in the hopes that one day, one of the dudes she was fucking on the side would provide her with the break she had been waiting for since she was 18.  Her boyfriend, an aspiring musician, was consistently faithful and saving money wherever he could in the hopes that he could one day provide his girl with the life he believed she deserved.  He worked three jobs to pay the bills, take her out to nice dinners whenever he had a night off of work, and put money in his savings account for the engagement ring he was planning to buy her for their upcoming anniversary.  He was madly in love, and blind to her true nature, despite the fact that his closest friends saw right through her and regularly warned him as to their suspicion that she was not faithful in the least and a manipulative and conniving bitch.

The girl was an aspiring actress who just couldn’t get a break.  She busted her ass waiting tables and doing bottle service at hot club where she was regularly hit on by New York’s finest douche bags, and often met the guys she let take her out and slept with in return for favors.  She was a slut in the most basic sense of the word.  While her boyfriend was up all night working at the 24/7 diner around the corner from her apartment, she could either be found flirting and dancing with an older gentleman getting bottles at the club where she worked, or out on the town at another club, grinding on some other old dude in return for lines of blow in the VIP section.  She didn’t really feel much at all these days- it could have been from the years of rejection and having her hopes and dreams of becoming a star on the silver screen shot down time and time again, or it could have been from the grade A cocaine going up her nostrils on a nightly basis…either way, she was numb and lived her life in a blurred haze of drug use, alcohol consumption, and rich men that gave her what she wanted as long as she was hooking up with them.  She had learned years ago how exactly to shut off her feelings.  She couldn’t remember the last time she cried, and she couldn’t remember the last time that she was truly happy without the aid of synthetically manufactured drugs or the thrill of a ride in some investment banker’s hot car.  There was no real punctuation, just a daily routine of sleeping late, working a little, and partying hard, the same routine day in and day out was growing old, just as she was growing old, and life as she new it was growing old.

Once upon a time, she had been sweet and her charm had been genuine.  Once upon a time, she had also been madly in love with her boyfriend, the way that he still loved her even now.  Once upon a time, she never could have fathomed falling so far from grace and cheating on him, she never could have fathomed nights of doing free lines in return for a BJ in the men’s room.  Now, as she stood on the corner of 14th street on a busy Saturday in Union Square where she was going to meet with her agent to discuss an upcoming independent film she was going to be featured in, something triggered her memory.  As she stood waiting for the light to turn, cars and cabs and bikes buzzing by in a flurry of movement, she stared into space and remembered the very first time she had stood waiting to cross the street when she was going for her first consultation with her current agency.  She was a different person then; her dreams were so high, her standards were higher.  She was hopeful and not run down.  She thought with her heart and her mind, and she wasn’t fueled so much as she was now by her desperate desire for fame and wealth.  These were the days when she didn’t give a fuck about being able to skip the line at the hottest night club, these were the days when she didn’t even know what a Birken bag was.  The days when her grey eyes weren’t ice cold, but warm and sparkled with that brilliance that can only be seen in the eyes of someone who is pure of heart.

The crowd of people around her started to move forward across the street, and she awoke from her daydream and began to cross too without looking either way.  As she stepped off of the curb, a rogue bicyclist clipped her and she jumped back and gasped in shock…. “Jesus Christ, watch where you’re fucking going!” she screamed after the mexican delivery boy whom simply turned his head to look back on her before he sped off down the street.

After her meeting, she went home to chill for the few hours she had before she her next appointment- a date with a 42 year old financial analyst who wanted to take her to dinner and out on the town in his sick Mercedes SUV.  She was sitting on the couch watching re-runs of Sex in the City, when her boyfriend came in the door, fresh from rehearsal with his band.  “Hey Babe, how was your meeting?” She turned to look at him, a vile look of disgust taking over her otherwise pretty face, “Take your fucking shoes off Jimmy, Jesus!  I am tired of cleaning up after you, I’m not your mother!” she said, and then went back to staring at the tv.  He leaned over to unlace his converse.  “So, are you working tonight?  If you aren’t, my friend is playing a show at the Rosewood- we should go.”  Again she turned her gaze from the tv and looked at him, the same look of disgust coming across her face, her grey eyes cold and steely, “I fucking told you- I work EVERY night this week…. I go in at 9.”  “Oh, Excuse me for not remembering your schedule on top of my own…” he said as he opened the fridge and scoured it for an readily edible piece of food to fill the hole in his stomach after another long day.

Later that night, as our main character was getting ready for her ‘date’, she found a baggie of coke she had stashed away in her underwear drawer.  She looked behind her to make sure the bedroom door was closed and that Jimmy was occupied with his computer.  She unscrewed the hidden coke spoon pendant that hung around a gold chain on her slender neck and did a bump before placing the rest back under her collection of lacy thongs and heavily padded bras.  She put on her highest heels and took a look at herself in the mirror.  She stared at her own reflection; her eyes seemed dead despite the cat-eye eyeliner and metallic shadow she had used specifically to make them stand out.  She puckered her lips to apply a final coat of lipgloss and ran her fingers through her hair.  She thought about the fact that she was no longer 20 years old, and the late nights of partying hard were slowly beginning to take a toll.  The appearance of fine lines on her forehead and the dark circles she so expertly concealed under her eyes were a tell-tale sign of her frequent drug use, lack of sleep, and constant stress she felt at hiding the fact that she was regularly hooking up with other dudes all whilst trying to keep these secrets from getting to the attention of her naive boyfriend, who now sat playing Call of Duty.   “Fuck the Chanel bag, I better ask for botox and collagen injections later… ” she said to her reflection before she turned to walk out the door.  “Will you be home late tonight?” her boyfriend asked without looking away from the tv, “I can wait up and make you your favorite mac and cheese if you want.”  “No, I might spend the night at a friend’s house since she lives right next to the place where I have that audition tomorrow.”  I’ll call you when I’m out of work though.”  She turned to walk out the front door as Jimmy called after her, “I love you, make sure you have someone walk you out of work, I don’t like you leaving the club with so much money on you alone.”  “I will- see you tomorrow.” And with that, she closed the door behind her and ran down the three flights of stairs to the street below where she expected her date to be waiting.

She looked around for the matte black SUV she expected him to be waiting in.  She got out her phone to send him a text and was looking down she heard a horn beep.  She looked up as the SUV pulled over to the curb.  She put her phone in her pocked and smiled as she headed over to climb into his car.


She is drunk now, has already made three trips to the ladies room to blow lines of coke that her date happily provided her with, and is again staring into the mirror to reapply her lipgloss.  As she puckers up and pulls out the wand, she hears a group of girls behind her snickering and turns around to see what they’re laughing at.  One of the girls in the group- a tall, model-thin brunette stops laughing long enough to look her dead in the face and say, “Whore.”  She puts away her lipgloss and and walks out back into the blaring music and dark of the club.  As she approaches the table where her date has a bottle set up, she sees another girl sitting next to her date with her long legs draped over his own.  She panics at the sight of this as her heart begins to race.  “WTF?” she thinks to herself as she decides to turn around and walk away.  “Fuck him, I’ll find someone richer and hotter to go home with.”  She sees a promoter she knows from the club where she works and joins his table, smiling and dancing with a martini glass in her hand.  He gives her some molly, and she gets even more fucked up than she already was.  Her heart is racing and despite the fact that she is sweating profusely, she continues to dance.  She climbs on top of the couch with a bottle of Chandon in her hand, and takes a sip from the bottle as she gyrates and moves in sync with the heavy base of the blaring house music.  She feels her body overheating as she sways to the music, but she doesn’t care.  Fuck it- nothing matters anymore.  She takes another swig from the bottle, and looks back over at the table where her date is still sitting, the same skinny bitch still draped over his lap.  He makes eye contact with her across the crowd, and she takes another swig of champage.  Suddenly the world starts to close in and everything around the edges goes black.  She attempts to sit down, but it’s too late.  She collapses onto the bench, spilling champagne everywhere.  She is dead.

Indigo the Mule


As Indigo drifted further and further from the cruise ship, and after a few more generous swigs of the Tito’s vodka, he began to question his decision to steal only booze and not something of more sustenance.  He really had no idea how long he’d be adrift in the life boat before hitting land, or before being rescued again.  He was starving at this point too since he was now heavily intoxicated, and he began salivating at the mere thought of a pollo quesedilla from his favorite taco cart.  He licked his salty thumb to satiate his hunger and blacked out in a drunken stupor, lulled to sleep by the gentle rhythm of the waves, still sucking his thumb like a raver from 1996. He may or may not have peed his Bermuda shorts in his state of blackout drunkness.

Indigo awoke to a thirst he had never known before.  He’d never even been this thirsty after drinking a bottle of Jack Daniels to his face, doing 4 shots of Tequila, and eating 2 taco cart quesedillas before passing out for the night.  When he awoke, he didn’t know where he was, his lips were stuck shut because they were so dry, and his entire face was covered in sea salt.  He cracked open his crusty eyes to the mid-day sun beating down on him through the windows of the life boat (remember kids, this isn’t a blow up life raft he stole – it’s a legit life boat from a cruise ship… ).  It must have been 2pm, but since he had neither a watch nor a cell phone, he didn’t know what time it was.  Indigo would have killed for a bottle of Evian or Gatorade at this point.  He was so thirsty, that against his better judgment, he decided to drink some seawater which he collected using a rope and empty Tito’s bottle.  Fuck it – whats one cup of salt water going to do?  Well my friends, saltwater is a natural laxative that many people use as part of the Master Cleanse.  Since Indigo relies on coke and adderall for his cleanses, he was clueless as to the power of simple saltwater.  He knew saltwater would lead to further dehydration, but he had no clue that the effects would be more explosive in nature than eating a fistful of Dulcolax.

About two hours after drinking the seawater, Indigo felt the most God-awful stomach cramps he’d ever felt before.  The intestinal cramping he was experiencing now was even worse than the time he had drank a 12 pack of PBR, devoured cold McDonald’s the following morning, and than snorted a couple of lines of blow and had an explosion at his friend’s toilet.  It felt like someone had both fists inside of his lower stomach, twisting and squeezing his intestinal tract.  He was doubled over in pain… sweating profusely under the hot sun, already dehydrated and weak, and praying the end was near.  He imagined that this is what labor must feel like for women, and he swore up and down he would never procreate if it meant that another human had to suffer this way. He started crying because his stomach hurt so fucking badly…. and then – he knew it was time…

He threw himself to the side of the boat, ripped down his Bermuda shorts and hung his bony ass over the side of the raft and had what can only be described as a volcanic eruption.  The relief was almost immediate as he felt the 3-gallons-worth of vodka and seawater exiting him like the world’s most intense colonoscopy enema anyone had ever experienced.   Sadly, he wasn’t finished yet, and had to repeat this process at least 4 more times.  By the time he was finally done, he was absolutely emaciated from dehydration.  His eyes were sunken into the hollows of his skull, his veins were popping out of his tiny arms and legs, he could see his heart beating in his stomach, and he felt like he was about to die.  Basically, he felt like a principal dancer from the American Ballet Theatre feels on any given day.  He felt fabulous darling –  he looked like death warmed over, and that is tres chic.

Indigo was laying down, feeling up his rib cage and running his hands over his hip bones,  imagining how well his size 00 Rag and Bone, women’s leather pants would fit right now, when he saw a strange reflection on the metal ceiling of the boat.  Using all of his remaining strength, he lifted himself up and peeped out one of the windows.  Another boat!  It wasn’t a cruise ship, rather, a small fishing boat, but it was fairly close to him.  He started screaming out the window, hoping that they’d hear his cries for help.

The ship blew its horn and began to move closer to Indigo’s craft.  He was saved again!  Thank Jesus.  He probably wouldn’t have survived another 12 hours without water at this rate.  The beat up fishing boat idled up to the side of Indigo’s life boat, and a couple of Spanish speaking men threw a rope ladder to Indigo.  He climbed aboard with a huge smile on his face and said “Howd’y do Fellas’!  You’ve rescued me for the second time this week!”  The rough looking men gave each other sideways glances.  They spoke no English, and unfortunately, the only Spanish Indigo knew was taco cart.

They gave him a jug of water and some Arepas.  He guzzled down the gallon jug like it was his job, and picked at the Arepa… he didn’t want to ruin his girlish figure after all the hard work he’d just put into losing 15 lbs. in water weight.  After all, beauty is pain, and his butthole wasn’t currently on fire in vain, darling.  He overheard the men mention “Colombia” and assumed that’s where they were from.  He also overheard “Ibiza” and assumed that’s where they were headed.  Funny for a fishing boat, he thought.  Why the fuck would a group of Colombian men be traveling all the way to Ibiza to sell fish?!

As dusk fell, one of the guys led indigo downstairs to the cargo of the ship.  He walked down the stairs and into a space that was filled with tuna and sea bass on ice.  The man motioned for indigo to hold out his hands, speaking commands in Spanish, and so Indigo did what he was told.  He expected the man was going to hand him a beer or more food, but instead, he presented some zip ties from his pocket and proceeded to tie up Indigo’s wrists and then his ankles.  He wasn’t really Indigo’s type physically, but given the circumstances and considering how hard-up Indigo was for a lil’ hanky-panky at this point, he figured he was down for a some LIGHT BDSM with a stranger.  I mean, what’s the difference between fucking a stranger on a fishing boat at sea or meeting some dude who lives 10 blocks away on Grindr for some bareback action?!

Indigo was getting into it and playing coy with the man, who’s name was Diego.  Just as he thought Diego was about to start undressing him and servicing him, he said something else in Spanish and then went back upstairs, turning off the lights, and leaving Indigo alone in the cargo hold, fully clothed, tied up, and totally sexually frustrated.

Indigo was so confused.  He really thought they’d hit it off…. he was wondering if he wasn’t skinny or hot enough for this man, when he heard a voice in the darkness.  “Hey, amigo!  You know what this boat is, right?  Una operacion de cocaine!  Take a look around Amigo… here, let me help you…” And with that, the lights came on, and a man of small build was standing before Indigo with a switch blade.  He cut off indigo’s zip tie restraints and motioned him towards one of the freezer’s piled high with fish.  “Take a look, Amigo,” and with that, he lifted up the fish and scraped over the ice to reveal kilos upon kilos, of plastic-wrapped cocaine.  Indigo literally blew his load right then and there.  He had never seen such vast amounts of happiness wrapped up and stored under one roof.

The men officially introduced themselves to each other.  Santiago (that’s the man’s name) was employed by the men upstairs to carry the drugs into Ibiza once they landed.  He told Indigo he had two choices, be killed by the men running the operation and thrown to the sharks, or become a mule like him and smuggle the drugs into Ibiza.  Indigo agreed to help smuggle the drugs… it wasn’t his first time and it wouldn’t be his last time to sneak large quantities of grade A narcotics past officials.  He was experienced in this game, so why not help out where he could?  He figured he could probably write it off as charity work if and when he ever had to file New York State taxes again.

And so, Indigo was brought into a meeting with Diego, Santiago, and Mateo (that’s the other guy in charge of this operation) to discuss the logistics of smuggling the drugs once they landed in Ibiza.  Indigo was excited to be a mule, but he was more excited for the free drugs they offered him as part of his compensation package.  They shook hands on the deal after an agreement was reached, and celebrated for the rest of the night with lines of grade A blow and cold coronas.  Indigo entertained the men with an impromptu burlesque act, which involved him stripping naked, using a twizzler as a G-string, and spanking himself with a dirty dish rag as he writhed around and gyrated on the deck.

Five long days, many more one-man-burlesque shows, and many lines of blow later, the fishing boat finally docked in Ibiza.  Indigo knew what to do. He’d been visualizing this moment every night for the last four nights.  He had stored several personal baggies of coke up his derriere for extra safe keeping and his own personal use, and had several bricks of the coke stored in a large, hard-shell suitcase.  He put on some Dior aviator sunglasses and an over-sized sun hat, and strutted off that boat and into port like he owned the fuckin’ place… he strutted like he was Naomi Campbell strutting into a diamond mine in the Republic of Congo, baby. Security didn’t even search his bag or have sniffing dogs at the docks… they were too in awe of his tanned and emaciated legs and extra-short Bermuda shorts.  This was one of the easiest jobs Indigo had ever taken, besides of course the time he was a male GoGo dancer in the East Village, but that’s another story.

Indigo made his way to the nearest cafe where he was set to pass-off the suitcase.  As soon as he’d successfully passed off the suitcase and received his share of cash for the job, he headed to the men’s room to “powder his nose.”  And powder his nose he did… he walked out of the men’s room glassy-eyed, and ready to PPPPAAAaaaRRRRTTTTAYYYYY!!!! Indigo was flying high and made his way to the nearest club to get his freak on. He had cash in his pocket, coke up his ass, he was in Ibiza having paid nothing at all to get there, and life was looking up.








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….




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.