Tool Disclosure 3.29.04
What I failed to mention is that after Selvadurai and I left the glowing theatre crowd that watched Bombay Dreams with us (who left using those theatre-fan standbys, “fabulous,” “wonderful performance” and such), we took the subway downtown. The F was not running to 2nd Avenue, where we were to meet Starla and her merry women. It was 11 pm and we decided to walk through the drunken jungle of the Village, NYU students interspersed with a little bridge and a little tunnel and a lot of hair gel.
The best part was the fellows behind us, about half a block behind from MacDougal Street to Broadway. One was large and loud and cursed like a teenager. The second was small and Napoleonic and cursed like Stifler. He was about three apples high, the usual blue pique-knit oxford, the usual Dockers, the usual paunch. Prime moments include him banging on a taxi’s hood, in the middle of the street with the light against him, yelling about how he was born in this country; some combination of cock and ass and more cock and bitch that was actually offensive to my ears; and the yelling of “can a n***a get a table dance.” Over and over again.
Guesses: He’s secretly the writer of this confused article defending a full range of speech. Perhaps he also enjoys Details Magazine, the publication responsible for this winner of a picture. But that's simply a loose guess.