Don't attack the Grumpasaurus when she's down

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

-Don't eat your priss porridge now... save it for later
-Don't tell me when to eat my priss porridge. Priss Porridge Hot. Priss Porridge Cold.

What actually happened starts like this. I alternated in between the sheets and the television all day long. Being hungover, and that hungover, plus having really nothing better to do, I whiled away the day in bed, reading magazines, writing a touch, and watching some very bad telefilms where Radha Mitchell plays an angel who goes to earth to pair up a girl with her true love, but ends up falling with the true love instead. At one point, the music was even Gone with the Wind, but on synthesizer.

Finally, around 6, made plans with the Ana and Voin to meet up at a cafe around Chateau D'Eau. Slung out in sexy new coat and tall white boots (The look is similar to something you might see on Ali MacGraw on Love Story), and tottered over to said meeting place. At the cafe, meet Marly, a very beautiful brunette, horse-like gait and flying brown mane, she'd be in Dynasty easy. Apparently, from all the details spewed out in the ensuing 30 minutes, she's some kind of artist/model/designer/sculptor from Holland, but living in Berlin. That's it...that's the CV of the cool kid right now in Europe. She fills it to the toe, including the rich daddy, waittressing/modelling job that fucks her over, trying to start a collective, and djing on the side.

Of course, in two seconds, she's flopping all over Voin... Voin this... Voin that... and look our boy is in the current H&M magazine! Incredible, and he looks the way he looks everyday, in his gypsy black pants and ripped Bulgarian muscle chic t-shirt, holding onto a fire extinguisher. Baby, put out that fire!

So, Marly goes on and on, about shows she's worked at, agents she knows, cool kids, publishers... like everybody and nobody at the same time. I have no idea what she's rattling on about. The overly serious way she asks me what I do for a living makes me cringe. I get the feeling I'm about to be stuffed into some bottle and slipped under the couch. So I make up some stuff, about eating food and chewing lip gloss, because, hot damn it, you never know if lip gloss is really toxic! Then I told her I do nothing professionally, because that makes you a whore. And she raised an eyebrow (a well-formed eyebrow!) and Voin and I huddled in laughter. ARRIVISTES! That's what we are, and we're not going to get upstaged by horse-legs over there!

Then we try to find something to do... which takes us to Mains D'Oeuvres, which was shit. Apparently the DJ was Canadian. My bet is that he was Quebecois. What the hell! Who still listens to Jazzy Dub... yuck... I can just imagine a bunch of Whitey Dreads already... or even worse, the normal looking guy in his workman's pants, who reels off an encyclopaedic list of obscure dub bands all the while haughtily grilling you on which dub label you prefer. FUCK! We leave fast... with tons of droopy eyed normal guys giving us the one over... especially to our resident model/arriviste HorseLegs.

Then, pull over to Ana and Scoub's place (yes, Ana is Scoub's roomie) and tuck in for some TV, music, pickled herring, pistachios, olives, bottled water and designer beer. Voin and Marly kept going on their "what chic party will we go to" banter, alternating between some Brazilian party and the Vivienne Westwood Diamante party. While they are goofing off on this, my allergies are going haywire with the two cats. I spend the better part of the night alternately sneezing, dying from boredom, and watching Red Sonja, which is a rocking film. Did you know that the film was directed by Richard I wonder if he's the brother of Alain Fleisher, the head of my school...if we were so close to Arnie Conan cheese, the whole time we were plowing away on serious muthafucking contemporary art. Damn... I should have gone to the Richard Fleisher school instead.

Tapping in vaguely to the kids, I tell them to check the vodkacoca site, and of course, the Westwood party is invite only. Sorry kids...drooping party panthers, still hungry at the gates. So they get all excited about the Brazilian party... "I know this really amazing choreographer from NY, and he's even going to this Brazilian party." I think I'm going to drop dead from allergies.

Luckily, the plan hinged on Ana's car, and since Ana and I had already made a date to drive me home with the scanner, those two party panthers would either have to hike it on the Metro, or bite the bitter home bullet. I kinda felt bad... I mean, they really wanted to go out. But, was getting a bit sick and tired of being dragged around virtual nincompoop wanna-be lists, and fed up with all this pseudo D-List Celebrity material. Fucking hell, I am not sneaking into Westwood's party just so that we can maybe bump into a supermodel at the bar, or maybe have a toast with Vivienne herself. I want to be famous in my own right, with something real to show for it.

But, maybe the real back story is that this girl wants some bonding time... superficial talk is so exhausting at the end. I wanted to corner Ana so we could tell jokes and giggle, instead of being steamrolled by the party panthers. Which happened, around midnight.


Currently listening to Doreen's Disco Magic Midi's BORN TO BE ALIVE french cheese and dancing in my puppy dog pajamas... "to be alive... to be alive... I was born... born to be alive." (yes, french people sometimes do miss the subtleties of english...)