There’s always hope that the next wooden tiki door handle you pull will reveal another world. That the black velvet painting will have tears not tits, rhinestones not blood diamonds, not whirlpools of saliva in whispering breath, humid mumps or any of that dagger under the thong, any sexual predators holding hands with teenagers, New York’s finest wrist-bruising on patrol.
The next wooden tiki door handle you pull will reveal the same world you hate, despite the flair, clowns juggling flamethrowers, pirates climbing into crowns of thorns, etc. Everyone, frustrated, starts brawling and punching each other’s lights out. So that’s how it goes, in the real world, on either side of the fountain spitting out the last drink from Julius’ fucked up face.
More about: Brad Laner
