I’m sitting in the courtyard of the Chelsea International Hostel. With a certain degree of sadness I hung my photos in the Parsons summer student exhibit, and got really bummed when it came time to tear down. Photos of our show forthcoming, but to say the least, uppercrust white parents from Connecticut are not the most appreciating of art audiences. It’s kind of infuriating to see poorly Photoshopped snapshots garner more attention and eyeballs than interesting work with visual and intellectual depth. Anyway I am taking home a lot of new portfolio pieces, and I’m tickled pink with my progress. Though not really any direct credit towards the school, I feel I’ve improved.
So, freed from the cell of the 9 to 5 (haha), I moved into the hostel cause it was cheaper, and and I needed a new neighbourhood to hang in. Mid-Manhattanite Washington Square isn’t always the most happening of places.
So as I pilfer free wireless from surrounding apartment buildings, I have, in true hostel fashion, been hit on twice in 20 minutes. By sharkish thirty-someodd men far too old for the disgusting, impoverished habits of a trekker. They obviously make enough money to stay in a four-star hotel, but stay for weeks on end in the hopes (without avail) of scoring with the plenitudes of hot European slouchy hipster-dreamgirls.
Photos forthcoming of a real class act: Spanish middle-ager with perfectly groomed goatee and windblown Fabio-esque black mane of hair, with an ironic hairy chest and swollen potbelly. Sandal and white sock combo is in full effect. Under his short-short swimming trunks in a tasteful orange Hawaiian floral pattern, his ballsack hangs out. Other accessories include: two gold chains, a bag of regular Lays chips, and fake Rolex from a previous visit to Times Square.