Yesterday I met with Cathy Horyn who is the fashion editor of the New York Mutha' fuckin' Times. Seriously. She is my new obsession. I invited her over to the Donkey Show to drink 40's on the porch, and she, surprisingly, was into the idea. Then, after our psychic connection (yes, we had one...in fact I think we should combine our names and become "AlleyCat") she didn't show. So, in my malt-liquor induced stupor, I left her a message that said something like,
"What up Cathy, I'm just hanging out on the porch like I said. We bought you a forty. Let's all go to a strip club."
*she said she likes the strip clubs
Those were my chosen words for a New York Times writer. An invitation to have a sloppily drunk lap-dance. Oh man, I am a douchebag.
I'm going to San Antone tomorrow night. Why, you might ask, would I return to a city so full of Alamo-influenced bad parties? Because I have ABSOULUTELY nothing better to do. Guess who else is going to be in SA that night? CATHY HORYN. I kow there's some licka joints and nekkid ladies there too. Watch out NYT lady. Watch out.