Field Trip to the Man Shanty

I’ve been hearing about the Man Shanty for a long time. It’s where Sex Machine lives with his best friend J.Z.

It’s pretty much Bone Zone Ground Zero.

Here’s my favorite Man Shanty story: S.M. and J.Z. were entertaining some ladies at a nightclub, apparently models of foreign origin. (Russian? Brazilian? Can’t remember exactly.) The boys suggested they all go back to the Man Shanty. They had just gotten a chandelier! It was a must-see! The invitation was extended several times before the ladies accepted. So they get them over there, and one of the girls turns to our heroes and goes, “This is mansion?”

Last night Mr. Pistol and I hung out with S.M. and his two sisters, Scarlet and [tk], who are some of my oldest friends.

I give you our night in pictures!

Top center, in red: “I just fuck her like a hero dude…” Poetry!

That’s the North Wing up there. You know what is a funny joke? Writing S.M.’s mom’s name on the ceiling up there. (Good one, Scarlet!) Also, some directions for the ladies. Such as: “S.M. likes to be slapped, lightly.” And some for the dudes. Like: “Come in my hair! Please!”

There was absinthe, somehow. Also Paul’s burgers, which are half-pounders! And Girl Scout cookies.

The best thing was, I got to wear this enormous 8 on a chain all night long. Turn it on its side and it’s motherfucking infinity.

Later, we went to Bungalow 8. What the fuck, what? I don’t know what to say. S.M. is all about contradictions. And he drinks for free there, somehow.

That place is weird. Lots of douchebags, skinny-assed blondes, and vodka. Blech.

The music was mostly wretched, but Mr. Pistol had the devil in him: he wanted to dance. Mr. P is an incredible dancer. He especially likes to ply his wares in places where nobody else can dance, like at Long Island weddings, or Bungalow 8. He gave me a workout, yo. One second he’s all Check it out, I’m Prince! I’m a pimp! and then suddenly it’s Watch out, cuz I’m actually a zombie! and then the next moment I can’t even see him, because he’s gotten so low, his head is bobbing somewhere around my shins. My man made a scene, and in the best possible way.

Then we were off to S.M.’s friend’s house. She’s kind of a big deal in the world of fashion, apparently. She let me try on the bossest leather coat. Knee-length and soft as butter, with some hot-looking lapels. I was sorry to take it off. She let me borrow a gorgeous cream-colored wool jacket, however. I might even wear it during my Sunday-night residency at Youpers later on.

We got home at 6:30 this morning. Haven’t done that in awhile.

I have a tip for you. Pistol Whip’s hangover cure=EYELINER. You put it on, you rub your eyes, and you’re not hungover anymore… you’re a haggard Eastern European prostitute with stories to tell. Works for me.

by Pistol Whip | 4 March 2007 | bone zone, drunk | Comments