How to Piss in Public: From Teenage Rebellion to the Hangover of Adulthood by Gavin McInnes

Author:Gavin McInnes [McInnes, Gavin]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2012-03-19T16:00:00+00:00

New Wave Hookers (2000)

Passerby was an art gallery in the West Village with a fun bar and a dance floor that lit up like Saturday Night Fever. A hilariously eccentric group of designers called As Four would often be there dressed in mummy rags and stilettos with their circular purses and pointy beards and tits hanging out, but it was also kind of scuzzy. You’d see junkies among the artists and it wasn’t unusual to see a drag queen beating the shit out of someone who was trying to steal his handbag.

Pinky had come to visit New York from Montreal and he was dressed like a grunge B-boy in basketball shoes and dirty jeans. Vice was still in the throes of the dot-com boom at this point and I was not spending my money wisely. I was rocking a Eurotrash velour tracksuit with no pockets and spotless $200 kicks. I was also buying way too much gold and had a huge ring on every finger. One said “Love,” another said, “Hate,” and there was also “Brooklyn Lager,” “NYPD,” and, of course, “Vice.” I had gold teeth and had blown almost $1,000 on a huge gold rope chain around my neck.

Pinky was smoking a cigarette outside Passerby and I was with him. Then a cab pulled up and three of the hottest women I’d ever seen climbed out. I also remember a dry-ice haze all around, but that’s probably just in my head. They were all dressed like those girls in the ZZ Top videos they call “the Eliminator Girls.” They had fingerless gloves on and huge hair with tutus and weird plastic jewelry. They looked like slutty versions of early Madonna but the last one to get out made my whole body ache with lust. Her name was Blobs and she stepped out of the cab with skintight yellow jeans and white ankle socks with kiss marks all over them stuffed into stilettos. When she stood outside the cab she was tall with Chinky raccoon eyes and lips bigger than an inner tube (turns out she wasn’t a Chink—they were American Indian eyes). Pinky and I turned into Lenny and Squiggy and bit our fists. They looked back at us like the snobby cunts they were and marched into the club with their noses in the air.

“I have to have her,” I said to Pinky.

“Who?” he asked.

“The last one.”

Inside, the girls danced and made fun of people, and I chugged beer trying to summon the courage to talk to the last one but it took way too long. About three hours later, when my buzz was sufficiently strong, I headed toward her but just before I got there, she started screaming like snakes were shooting out of the floor. She was holding her hand in the air like it had been badly burned and her friend Annabel was screaming, too. Both ran to the bathroom and Blobs left her purse on the floor as everyone stared at it. I assumed she pricked her finger with a syringe but it was much worse.

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