And yet, despite loving several things last night, I would be hard pressed to tell you what stuff I saw and who by. I remember a Matthew Richie. That's about it. But there was nice stuff. I really need to go back to Chelsea this weekend and look at all of the stuff, relook at all the stuff, sober and with perhaps more of my critical faculties about me.
I was pretty shitfaced by eight o'clock and wanted PENIS, kept on shouting about how we should find it, tried to mobilize the party I was with to go to Rawhide - but there is that tried there because the attempt was unsuccesful. Rawhide did not happen, nor penis. I told a waiter on 23rd Street that I loved him. He smiled, having heard me. I told the same to several other people, but either they didn't hear or pretended not to, or maybe - probably - I just never wanted them to hear me, wanted to play love, pretend it was something I was after, but only in a ritualistic sense, something that would allow me to mourn its lack of occurence. But that's all maybe. And had I more energy or more optimism that something may come of it, and that, even if it did, I would want that thing, I might post a Missed Connection about the boy - but, really, what are you going to build on the humoring smile of a stranger? The world! The goddamn motherfucking world! That's what. But there is my lack of luck with the world of Missed Connections lately and also my desire to listen to more Hall and Oates on my headphones and to read more of Giovanni's Room and to never again in my life think that the Internet, this www, is capable of providing me the things I can find, and occasionally do, out on those streets of this city.