American Gigolo

"Who's that gigolo on the street
With his hands in his pockets and his crocodile feet
Hanging off the curb, looking all disturbed"
–Neneh Cherry (what the hell ever happened to her?)

This blog earns me no money. No dough, no quid, no cabbage. It is, perhaps, a means toward income as a disjointed showcase of asinine observations, subversive tone notwithstanding; but it does not afford me the life of a jackass baller “drinkin’ ‘tron on ice poppin’ bottles all night.” Gone is the tumultuous profitability of global interest rate sales, the halcyon days where Masters of the Universe banged heads over penny mark-ups and lined their pockets with the ignorance of unsophisticated clients. In its place lies a vacuous cesspool of instant espresso, Campbell’s Chunky soup, and the mind numbing task of claiming weekly unemployment benefits online.

Gigolo work could offer depraved fun for a second or two, but I hold no metrics as to advisable junk size, bone structure, or conventional pricing for services rendered. And you can’t exactly find that stuff on Career Builder. Should I decide to blaze the trail of sin – sipping gin and tonics with elderly socialites at The Palace Hotel, clad smartly in chaps and a blazer, and making sweet love to Engelbert Humperdinck records – I’ve been promised “meds and routine STD screenings” from a friend in the infectious disease circuit. Being that his federal supervisor is the program consultant to the adult film industry, I’ve also been pledged a helping hand in making a “transition from the street.” Thank you sir, but Van Nuys is a long drive from this man cave, and I am not, nor do I aspire to be, the next Hedgehog of gonzo cinema.