Piss Artist

Breasts, art, rock 'n' roll and marathon running.

By Brian McManus
Add Comment Add Comment | Comments: 0 | Posted Nov. 8, 2006

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Shaven Haven: Here come Beatle band for make benefit glorious nation of England.

On his 30th birthday, hotshot six-figure-earning corporate executive Dean Karnazes celebrated in a San Francisco bar. His wife--not a fan of late-night boozing--went home, leaving Karnazes pounding drinks with a young, attractive woman. The woman got aggressive, pressing against Karnazes and laughing more than she should've at his lame jokes. He told her he was married. It mattered not. So was she.

This week, at age 24 (back off, fact-checking intern), I find myself hosting a band in Philly before they play a few dates at CMJ--New York's colder, much more spread out, barbecue-less version of Austin's South by Southwest music conference. We have time to kill.

We hit up an exhibit at Gallery 339 called "The Regulars" featuring McGlinchey's bartender Sarah Stolfa's photos of her patrons. The band--traveling with their own photographer/historian (they're kind of a big deal)--thought it'd make a nice excursion, but not before some libations of their own.

We have a few tall ones and buzz on down to the gallery. The photographs, well shot as they are, don't keep our attention. We decide to leave and throw the other one and a half sheets to the wind.

There's a band playing at Johnny Brenda's that the guys know and want to heckle. (Best of the night: "Less gay in the monitors!") After heckles, more drinks. We follow the drinks with heckles. Then we drink some more.

Next we head to a 52nd Street club called Cousin Danny's Exotic Haven, which boasts "Live Go-Go Girls Every Night." The $5 cover gets you a ticket, good toward $3 off your first drink.

A heavy-set young woman (350 pounds, give or take) is hurling her mass around a pole with surprising agility, smacking her ass and looking back at three or so Exotic Haven "regulars" that seem loads more interesting than anyone in Stolfa's photographs. The guys in the band have to remember, for their own safety, that heckle time is over.

Someone notices the band guys don't look like they're from around here and shouts, "You niggas look like the Beatles! What up, Beatle boys!" This causes great despair as the band, like most bands, is aiming for more of a Stones thing.

There's a private room at Exotic Haven that can be procured for $5 an hour or $20 for an entire night. Can't exactly remember if anyone chooses to partake.

At 8 a.m. the next morning my alarm is ringing. My head is pounding and it takes a minute to see straight. On top of hosting the band, my brother's also in town. He's running a marathon with Dean Karnazes.

That night on his 30th birthday, Karnazes excused himself from the woman's advances, walked through the kitchen exit of the bar and out into the cold San Francisco night where he stripped off his pants and ran 30 miles. He's now considered the world's foremost Ultra marathoner, running sometimes (not kidding here) 250 miles at a clip. His latest challenge is to run 50 marathons in 50 days in 50 different states. Philadelphia was marathon 48. New York is his last.

And in the bitter cold this morning I, along with my brother and 60 or so other kooks, are waiting for Karnazes' arrival. I'm falling in and out of sleep, shivering and wishing for death, but most of all, wishing that--instead of finding his calling on that fateful night--Dean would've just shtupped that girl.

Drunks are selfish.

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