Got an odd email from a supposed cousin I've never met nor knew I had. A 17-year old girl named Samantha, who shares my extremely rare, Austrian last name, and who's father was a nice-enough guy named Myles, a hospital architect who I met and shared a few family visits with eons ago. I remember his then girlfriend [or wife?] was Korean and spoke rittle ingrish. One Easthampton summer dinner caused alarm when my father slaved over a home cooked meal only to witness the Korean woman pull out a paper napkin filled with those red pizza parlor pepper flakes and watched in horror as she frosted the entire plate in molten lava. Offended yet trying to show respect for another culture, my father wondered how she could taste a GAT-damn thing? Since I don't remember the answer, I doubt it satisfied our collective bewilderment. But, the event must have meant something to me to hold onto that teency-weency memory after so many years. I have almost always opted for spice over sweet. I wonder if it was because of that particular red pepper incident, or was it because my brother, Mike was diagnosed with Juvenile Diabetes at the tender age of 9 (a year-and-a-half younger than me], ergo, no more Entenmann's nor Captain Crunch in the fridge. Strictly fresh fruits, mom's chicken cacciatore, dad's spinach noodle pie, crock pot soufflé’s, and two syringes of insulin per day for my poor, betrayed brother.
Rendezvoused with Vanessa W. and Juliet H. from the F to the R to Sunset Park where Jessica Abel & Matt Madden hosted a house warming party. Guests were 1/3rd community neighbors and 2/3rds cartoonist brigade, which included: Ana Merino [& Felix], Tomer Hanuka, Heidi MacDonald, Nick Bertozzi [w/Kim & Sabina], K. Thor Jensen, Pheobe Gloeckner, [who told me I "danced very well"], Gabrielle Bell, Lauren Weinstein, Calvin Reid, Megan Kelso, Myla Goldberg, Eli Bishop, Ellen Lindner, Tom Hart & Leela Corman, John Keen, and Marcela Trujillo, who is a lovely Chilean artist with an amber cherub cherry smile. Marcela gave me a bunch of her sublime looking comix and flexed the right attitude for a Saturday night wang-dang as I traded the plasma in my veins for equal parts Olde-E-800, Merlot, Jim Beam, and Tequila. I began to shellac the dance floor with my Doc Marten's while the cute brut cartoonists cliques gossiped and twisted my nipple. All they did was stand around and yap. Broiling, I unleashed PLASTIC NIGGER, my mixed party tape, and tried to let Busta Rhymes convince the cartoonists to put their "hands where my eyes can see." A few kind souls slid about the parkay, but to no avail. This party was strictly conversational with a hint to tease. Called it quits @3AM and offered my new Chilean friend a futon to crash.
Woke up to a surprise telephone call Sunday morning from Linda Dawkins, my ex-ex-ex-girlfriend whom I've managed to keep in touch with over the years sans traditional hate mail and hairy eyeballs. We met and dated at SUNY Purchase when I was studying film and she was studying dance. The first thing I remember ever asking her while staring at her fizzy fine figure perform modern ballet was "May I smell your hair?" My bold wherewithal threw the fly diva off guard and snatched her by the short hairs for a couple of years. We hit it off like a bonfire/she broke up with me for another/the hurt eventually healed, and have remained solid ever since. Plus, we share the same exact birth date, so we're in the matrix! Linda asked me if I would escort her around Brooklyn to a bunch of open houses. She and her husband are looking into buying a place in Brooklyn rather than the Adirondacks or some awful suburban pit stop, and I was happy to oblige her.
Cooked a hearty breakfast for a very hungover Marcela as we watched TERROR OF MECHAGODZILLA to shock the day into motion. Hopped my bike to meet up with Linda at Grand Army Plaza and spent a casual afternoon scoping out apartments, walking around lower Brooklyn. Entering a strangers home brings about some filthy feelings. I remember Starsixtynine telling me once that he used to get erections from breaking and entering people's homes, way back in the day. That, entering a strangers life and sneaking about their personal items was sexual for him. I guess, in a primal yet subconscious way, he was talking about abstract rape. Like how cats fuck. All wrong and violent and screeching. And that's kind of what it felt like going to these open houses. Like I was pulling a rape train, judging wall paintings and family photos with the combined desperation of wannabe home owners with baby clocks ticking. Hell, even Linda admitted she was looking to expand her home from two to three or four. I told her I knew the names of my first three sons 1) Jack Henry Thor, 2) Muhammed-Ali [one word so you MUST say the entire name], and 3) Akhmed, for a future-nod to a Neo-USA. Still floundering on a girls name, but it'll come to me fast and hard if/when I need it to. I exposed Dawkins to Smith street's Soho-esque restaurant row and she bought us lunch at Panina Tecca.
What a weekend! First a visit from my Russian ex-gal pal Julia D., and then one from my dancer turned married school teacher/ex-ex-ex-gal pal, Linda D. What with my ex-ex-secret-UK girlfriend come married/pregnant Molly Tropp, swinging into town on Thursday, I'd say I've got my fill of fond XXX nostalgia.
Took in a half-hour of Gabe Soria's kind Oktoberfest/Bratwurst soiree. Munched on delicious home cooked sauerbraten with Tim Hall [& Mary], Nick Bertozzi & his sister Vanessa, and cracked up over the latest installment of CrankYankers.
Got the buzz from SBX, and was off on my silver steed, once again.