Being at a dinner party where everybody is earnestly pronouncing famous peoples’ names wrong is one of those charged spaces I feel are extravagant dishes served up by the Universe, like the conversation equivalent of black pepper-and-truffle iced cream with profiteroles. My attention is drifting back and forth/in between thinking about Chloe Sevikh-nay’s Last Days of Disco performance problems, and the fireplace pokers, and the graceful hand-holding of the perfect boy couple perched together at one end of the table, and the fact that I’ve never washed the fancy bra I’m currently wearing, not even once, the one I ceremoniously bought 4 months ago, which eventually blended up into a cerebral smoothie that segued perfectly into a flashback about that one time that babe in a bar here accused me of objectifying Women and Minimalism, referencing my explicit internet promotion of dudes like Helmut Newton & Co. Remember that TV sho starring Brett Butler called Grace Under Fire? I felt like punching that babe in the face and then like hugging her real hard and being like,
“I totally Get You Girl. You Must Have Been Talking to My X-Boyfriend About My Art Practice.”
In real lyfe I did something in between, which was pay for her drink and make faces at her when she wasn’t looking. I’m Gross like that sometimes, I just hate crude confrontation and especially when it’s in daylight/public. I feel embarrassed for myself more than anyone when people throw down like that, so recklessly and while half-drunk, when their noses and cheeks are Hemingway Red.
It’s crazy how dirty my bra is right now. It’s actually discoloured- used to be raspberry and now it’s boysenberry. Soaked in haircut sweat and Costume National Scent Intense. And intricately criss-crossed with the the tiny cut hairs of strangers.
My treadmill here is surrounded by palm trees, my treadmill in NYC faces the street in a storefront window protected by the stealthy drape of a two-way mirror, so that I can reverently observe people checking their outfits and facial poses, while I’m toning my butt. You know about it? Regionally apropos environmental exercise curation. Rainforest vs. Racetrack.