It may come as a shock to you, faithful readers, but the PIC writers don’t ride one of those tandem bicycles together, don’t all live in the same bunkbed-filled dorm and don’t carry on epic drunken rants with each other.
Court and I instant or text message here and there, and most of us are buddies on MySpace or FaceBook, but other than that we all kind of just work there, man.
As much as I’d like to, the fact is I haven’t met my peers at PIC, until about three weeks ago when Xavier Holland invited me out for his birthday – which was fun.
Then two nights ago X texted me: “Paul Frank and I are drinking in times square. Come out.”
It was late, I was tired so I told them I’d be out the next night.
Paul Frank called to insult me, which I should have expected.
The next day at work my phone vibrated, “Hey good job on being a fuckin’ DICK last night” – Paul Frank.
And the texts kept on coming:
“when do you get done with work/do you know any sluts?”
“seriously I just want one hand job”
“you don’t know anybody that wants to have sex with me and then never see me ever again.”
“I mean since when is it weird to give a stranger a hangjob then pretend like nothing happened and let him sit there crying”
This was all during my really lame day job, so I wondered if Court could put a stop to these ridic texts:
“I’m off to punch frank in his skinny Wisconsin balls.” – kc to Court
“Bromance at first site.” Court to kc
Finally PF and I meet in a park in between his hotel and my office. I kind of felt like I was eloping or getting a hooker. I’ve talked to Paul Frank once on the phone and here and there over e-mails, but I’ve never seen him in person, except for his videos.
You probably have an inclination of what Paul Frank is like: and he probably fits that perfectly. He’s taller than me but scrawny. My sperms have bigger arms than him. He looks all of about 13 years old.
After our obligatory “hellos” we headed to a bar without a bouncer and drank a bit. Paul Frank isn’t just funny on the Internet, he’s funny in person. He's constantly his writing persona. He also carries a pocket full of toothpicks and chews through about ten of them.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asks, but before I say anything he interrupts. “Don’t answer that because I really don’t care.”
“Don’t write about any of the things I really say because I don’t want my mom to find out.”
“Hitler used crystal meth.”
“You met X’s family! Are they all, you know, black?”
Then we headed to my old ‘hood to try and hook up Paul Frank with some chicks. While leaving the subway Frank yells, “It was nice to meet all of you. I hope we can hang out again some time.” The hardened New Yorkers glare at him.
Paul talks fast but walks really slow. I kept turning around and looking for him. I don’t know if he’s distracted by pretty lights or just has lead feet.
We rolled into Finnerty’s Irish Pub, one of my haunts. X met us there, he’s also tall and skinny, but calm and quiet – almost completely opposite of the Wisconsonian. We share a few pitchers. Paul Frank can’t hang, and by 8 p.m. he’s begging for a Red Bull, and when I bring him one he spills beer all over the place and ignores his energy drink. I’ve seen little girls throw darts better than PF. His darts rarely make it to the board OR stick in. Pussy.
X kept leaving for whatever reason. PF and I berate him for not writing anything (X says he’s starting again when school starts). Frank asked me where the bathroom every time then would get lost coming back.
I had a long day writing about a glass factory and X also worked so we’re crapped out. Paul can barely function besides insulting us and asking us to get him laid (I only knew dudes who would bang him, PF refused). X and I think about dropping PF off on Christopher Street and letting him get all the free sex acts in the world. As we walk to the subway I point out the dorm where “The Gayest Fire Alarm Story Ever” story occurred, where I used to pick up 40s and where I used to buy munchies.
X and I say our goodbyes and makes plans to meet up sometime before he ships back out to California.
Now I feel like I’m watching a really drunk and tired little brother. I put PF on a train back to his hotel, which is actually more care I gave to my real little brother the last time I drank with him.
On my way home I hope I didn’t disappoint either one of them. I also wonder who my next visitor will be: Court? DeGraaf? Sarah Romeo? Give me more than 12 hours' notice and I'll have some badassness planned.
I haven’t heard from PF so I hope he’s okay and not sprawled out in a Dumpster or in an ice-bath without his kidneys.
Then I remember, Paul Frank didn’t pay for shit. Fuck him.
Thanks for the good time boys!