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Killing the Unicorn Softly

[whitespace] "If it's clean, it'll smell like fresh apples"

By C. Silo

Having consumed a modest amount of Xanax and tequila the night before at a damp, seven-bedroom flat on Fell Street, I was only mildly surprised to learn that I had wandered into another roommate's bed and sort of made out with him ferociously while the one I was seeing lay semiconscious in the living room. Although it seems a bizarre infraction of my own rigid ethics, I do not regret diverting my attentions from the sweaty, micro-morphic, snowboarding filmmaker to the broad-chested, vaguely retarded poet, who sweetly informed me that I have the eyes of a "cherubic angel." In fact, I will go so far as to say that I behaved appropriately and with great foresight for the following three reasons:

One: the poet, like the filmmaker, had grand, improbable artistic visions, but at least I didn't have to watch his on a shitty little TV. Two: the filmmaker denied that the main difference between homeless people and ravers is that homeless people look good after 72 hours of drugs and no sleep. Three: my actions adhered to a logistical plan; hooking up with an attractively inhabited flat (not your own) provides excellent opportunity to multiply sexual encounters by twofold, threefold and, depending on the amount of screens and walk-in closets, sevenfold. Sleeping with people contained in one building can save you up to 50 percent on cabs, buses and booze.

I was quite looking forward to establishing this prudent arrangement. But the poet, burdened by his own "superdeep energy" and "karmic fears," expressed remorse at having slipped the filmmaker, his purported "homie," an additional two tabs of tranquilizer--and at having tried to hump my leg like a greasy beast until 3 o'clock the next day. Needless to say, I decided not to proceed to roommates three through seven.

Taking a weekend leave of absence from low-minded scenarios, I joined Brenda Knight for last call at the uptown-style Alta Plaza, where we engaged in a thoughtful discussion of rimming. "If it's clean, it will smell like fresh apples," confirmed the author. Downing our final vodka gimlets, we concurred that unusually busy rear ends should be avoided. Searching deep inside my soul, I decided to ban the Frugal Gourmet, Dan Quayle and the entire cast of Rent (too much drama) from my list of crack hopefuls.

With our rimming manifesto complete, we strolled over to LIMN Magazine editor Andrew Wagner's cocktail party. Although it appeared at first that we had interrupted a graphic design crit at the Academy of Art, I spotted Mister Wagner in the kitchen downing whiskey and realized that the preponderance of horn-rimmed glasses and fitted black leather jackets was merely a sign of aesthetic evolution, not of a questionable degree.

The bearer of 20/20 vision and a sensible cotton jacket, the young Joshua Rifkin of Mumblin' Jim proved a delightful conversationalist and was not at all deterred by my sudden acquisition of the Distortion Megaphone--a wonderful device that allowed me to command changes in the music selections from the comfort of my chair in three distinct modes: Quivering Alien, Sissy Gimp and GHB Overdose. Mister Rifkin, whose new album, The Rainbow Connection, was remixed by the Autommator, agreed that the Distortion Megaphone could be useful for telemarketers and feminist sit-ins. Proof that contact with an electrical appliance can provide superior stimulus, the instrument inspired the following discovery: pleasure is wherever you decide to stick it.


Small things often come in small packages: c_silo@hotmail.com

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From the March 29, 1999 issue of the Metropolitan.

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