Audacity of HugeAs you stand at your penthouse’s 25-foot-tall windows and watch the sun set over Abu Dhabi, you wash down another cocaine oyster with a glass of shark tears and wonder: is hedonistic nihilism bringing you only empty pleasure rather than legitimate happi – ooh, there’s a party tonight? Of course you’ll be there.
Simian Mobile Disco
Your Heart Is As Black As NightAfter a week of wet, the rain has finally stopped; but you wish for clouds as the sun illuminates too much of the City’s dark soul. You’re holed up in a dim wooden womb of a bar, sharing company with two other aging men, one of them tending bar. In front of you lies Paradise Lost and a whisky neat, both untouched. You told Mills not to open the box, dammit. You knew he was impetuous, that John Doe could manipulate him, but… Why did he have to open the box?
MountainsIt used to be easier, man. All you had to do was harvest corn and occasionally bitch out a teacher for teachin’ your daughter lies about the moon landings. Some days, some days were good: finding an old Indian drone or going to a ball game with Murph. But now you’re literal light years from home, stuck in a ship with nothing but memories of Carcosa, a mellifluous accent and the key fob for your Lincoln, watching the waves roll in.
Here Comes the Hotstepper (Evian Version – Yuksek Remix)You’re out with Becky and the rest of your bitches, trying to find that hole-in-the-wall that serves picklebacks but, and let’s be honest here, you’re not entirely in control anymore after that loft party in SoHo. There’s no way that glüwein wasn’t spiked with something. Oh ha, that’s right, you’re the one who was pouring Goldschlager into it. As you stumble over a curb you think that calling Brett again would be a great idea.
Baby & Me
Booty SwingYou can’t believe it’s happened again. Every year, you throw an all-white party at your estate in East Egg. Every year, the most influential people in entertainment and the media arrive simply because you asked them to. And every year, some fool upends a drink tray onto you. What’s that soaking into the fibers of your custom Tom Ford dinner jacket? Your own damn vodka brand, that’s what. It’s mixing with your cologne into an unholy blend of Sean Jean, Cîroc and shame as your skin burns from the light of camera flashes.