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The Journal of Literary Satire | Hastily Written & Slopilly Edited
Friday, June 24, 2005

Key Party, N.Y.C., Circa Always

by William K. Burnette

So I drove down to the airport to pick up James Tenney. Oh, I don’t know … I been knowin’ him for years now and I’m not sure it is how we met, probably at some wife-swapping key party back when the Schneester pulled all night Aphrodites fueled by bathtub crank and foreskin canapés. Who knows, things change so much in the city. One year in, next year out. Right now we’re in to going to the gym and group steams whilst rubbing mango smoothies and mint leaves over each other’s privates. Overload. You understand.

Anyway, we’d sit around and compare notes on how his buddy Cage, who I also know and swapped ye olden spittle with, oh … in total silence, of course. Never to kiss and tell, ex post facto his death, of course. He explained to me how he is an inventor (and, mother, what an inventor) and how he invented this new way of kissing. Then he bent over and pressed Philip Corner’s chapped craggy lips against his bare ass, balls dangling down, turned around at me like some Linda Lovelace lookin’ over her shoulder and grinned like Stalin. Yeah, I know them. They’re cool. All the while you see, a bare-ass infant Scanner had somehow crawled up the drainpipe that led up to the flat … Oh, I’m sorry, the apartment (forgot where I’m at, you see) and scatted in across the window’s surface. Little bugger sure could get around. Even then. And in walked, you got it, Andy Fuckin’ Warhol … and eager to prove his prodigious talent, that baby Scanner sucked right up to Warhol’s pasty, pimply Pittsburghed behind—Smack!—and stuck there just like a little tree frog. Yeah … I know these guys. I know ’em all. And all the while, Cage over in the corner reluctantly miming a conductor, y’know, and some fucking nameless D.J. was running around trying to set up sound, being sycophant by necessity, cuz, like, Cage or James or none of those cats were going to do it. And the Schneester was already so cravenly waxed that the A.M.M. boys, fresh in from a residency stint at Sambo’s (they were playing, like, the cutlery and maaaaaaan, it was righteous), were pulling her blue hose right across her face. It was eerie, see; and of course, sublime. But it caused this huge circle jerk, and everybody, and I do mean everybody was there … and they’re still there, all of us, in that same little N.Y. apartment, cocks in hand, circling around some moveable plastic obelisk on wheels with a feminine name, or these days, anybody will do. After Andy, we just paste cardboard face cutouts across the top and jack to that, maaan. So fuck yeah … party is on, duuude. Feels like it’s just startin’, too.

Rock on avant-gardestars. And welcome to the interesting (props to the linguist up north fer that one, eh) ex-hardcore rockers too! Here cums everybody.

William K. Burnette has spent time in county jail, in relationships, and lived in a brontosaurus putt-putt golf dinosaur which he called home. They were always his fault. They call it screwing the pooch. And he's done it with regularity for the last 20 years. His dog's name is Nick.