I always preferred a raunchy Hustler magazine to a airbrushed Playboy, I don’t know, more messed up, less full of shit? Hustlers of the Paul Newman ilk ran in my family. There was a long line of pretty criminals getting over on the man that came before me- tax evaders, horse thieves, black market big shots, number runners, after hour card dealers- and I inherited the trait, the drive, the gene, the mind that could find the weak spot in any system and figure out how to cash in. I did for a while with great family pride and then I got hip to the greater laws of abundance and the beauty of honesty and prosperity. Lucky me. Still I have a soft spot for the hustlers of the world, particularly the definition of the word relating to male prostitutes for men. I used to live across the street from the 9th Circle, a notorious gay bar, and all the cute young hustler would hang out on my stoop, looking to make a buck. How could you not love them? I was lucky to fall in with a bunch of them in the Blacklips/Jackie 60 days, some of the coolest cats around, some of the most fun times. And then there is the Ramones song “53rd and 3rd”, one of their best, written by Dee Dee of course, about that famous nyc corner the guys would work.
…. Drats, I really wanted to post Jay Z's "Ima Hustla Baby" but it won’t play, so you're gonna have to go listen to that one on your own. Anyway, I was going to segway into more co-worker stories here (you know who you are), but you'll have to wait till tomorrow. Ahhh life.