Maeve told me that there's a sign on the door of the Red Hook dollar store that reads,
Respect Yourself.
No Dogs Allowed.
So, Saturday night, Slim and I went to a party at this converted garage/commune in Vinegar Hill. He said they were some people he knew from high school, but of course this in fact meant two ex-girlfriends and a bunch of people who, incidentally, had gone to Wesleyan plus sundry bohemians.
"How do you know Rita?" I asked one consummate ass with waxed mustachios.
"Oh, she de-virginized me," he replied. "On my birthday. Then on my next birthday, my girlfriend let me have anal sex with her!"
Later in the evening, I heard him recounting the same thing to another girl.
"You know, you should really learn a card trick or something," I told him.
Also met: a jewelry designer who's gonna cut my hair if I show her how to cook eggplant, and this French photographer who I'm going to set up with one of my friends.
We then moved on to another party, this one in a loft space with vague video installations projected onto the wall. The hostess wanted everyone to kiss her as an entry fee, but I managed to sneak in without her noticing.
"It's Francesca's birthday," said a sinister hipster shortly after we'd arrived. "We're going to sing the birthday song." We did.
The same hipster approached me. "I love your glasses," said he. "Come read my art." He presented me with a series of miniature books. "I have to write one every month for the next five years," he 'explained.' "This one's excellent. But this one's even better. If you don't leave now, I'm going to rape you."
"In that case, I think I'll leave," I said. ('Well, if those are your only options...' said one of Slim's ex-girlfriends.)
We left.
The next party was on the top floor of a warehouse building. The ceiling was covered with tinfoil and model bees.
The end.
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