This, I would like to say, as if it were a wine offered to me in a British comedy of manners, is not a wine that is to my liking. This is not the finest wine available. No, sir. This is not a wine at all, this is the sweet garbagesque runoff from the very bottom of the recycling bin. We know, my good friends, that human behavior is a constant thing of revolting marvel, that its deprivations are limited only by our own imaginations and final, pants-shitting mortality.
It’s true: We all evacuate. Some of us deign to practice while alive. And so it comes across this desk, and so I feel some morbid, putrid duty, which I’d better have checked out at some point, to pass along to you the Instagram account @waverlywanks. Here, one poor resident (of many, I imagine) of the little alley called Waverly in the Gayborhood chronicles the security-cam goings on outside, on his apparently godforsaken stoop.
And if any human activities were worthy of security cameras, these might be they. I say this not out of puritanism, I say it out of the sadness inherent in these handjobs, the melancholy and desperate mania of these copulations. And how does it come to pass that they all (well, not all, there is still Las Vegas and Northern Liberties, I suppose) occur on this particular stoop? How does so much of whatever this is land here so repeatedly, with such unrelentingness? I’m not even speaking of it so much as a policing failure or even sex worker force of habit: I’m talking about it metaphysically. How does so much bad fuck end up in one luckless place, is what I’d like to know.