A Convent, A Church, A Crack House and a Nudist Gallery
Innocent Karl does not support nudists
I am obsessed with my street. I live on this crazy block in Soho that’s bookended by a convent and a church — with everything in between. And I do mean everything. There’s three restaurants, including a new vegan joint going in next month (Ack! Ew. Vegetarians are bad enough, but vegans? That’s taking shit a little too far!!!); a bar, three coffee shops, a knitting place (I hate knitters. They’re so smug), a quilting place (owned by the knitting people); a cheese store, a meat shop AND… a crack house and a nudist gallery.
No seriously. This guy — we’ll call him Frank — well, Frank is like 400 pounds, really hairy with brown teeth and yellow toe nails — I know this because in warm months he stands out on the stoop of the townhouse his father left him when he died last year in shorts and a “barely-there- wifebeater.” So anyhoo, right after Frank’s dad died and left him the townhouse he started construction on something called the Soho Gallery of Digital Art — in the basement of said house. You know, Dad dies and the freak inside just has to be free! It is, in fact a “meeting place”, specifically for nudists. Frank apparently hates clothes. And why??? Why must nudists all be like hot anime creatures? Why must they all be… well. Like Frank?
So Frank held a big party at the SGDA this weekend — it was a gaggle of gay nudists — and had a bunch of TV screens brought in that depicted a bunch of penises. Fact. And of course the nuns walking to and from the church were freaked out. But hey!
The SGDA is two doors down from “the Goonies,” the Portugese crack dealing family on the corner. I call them “the Goonies” because the mother is mean and old. She has two large, scary drug-dealing sons and one Downsy child (notice I didn’t say “retarded” because, as per Sarah Palin’s guidelines, I wasn’t using it with satire — and the guy has Downs Syndrome!) who I call “Chunk” — just like in the movie! There was a bust early last week — so the Goonies have been quiet. I actually don’t mind their presence — it just means my section of Soho is swarming with undercover cops who, frankly, are really super-cute, in that “I got a gun in my pocket” kind of way. But it is nice when they go silent. The creepy brothers aren’t out with their creepy old school, 50 year old, toothless Soho hookers who are bonkers and start screaming random things at each other.
And the bust was exciting — I felt like I was in NYPD Blue (Don’t worry — I covered Karl’s eyes. He’s a tender lad, my dog).
My end of the street is a little tamer. We just have the guy who clearly can’t smoke in his apartment — so every morning when it’s nice out he gets his coffee from “Local,” and stands around smoking in a red satin robe — and nothing else.
I just want to see if the Goonies go nudie…