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Voodoo Glow Skulls, Hit a Guy With Glasses Options, The Band Geek Mafia, (Pop‑up). Lemon Demon, The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny Options. Ska and punk rock were first combined during the 2 Tone movement of the late s, by bands such as The Specials, The Selecter, The Beat.


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Опубликовано в Vanilla ice torrents | Октябрь 2, 2012

voodoo glow skulls band geek mafia download torrent

THE FOUR SKULLS OF JONATHAN DRAKE (Blu-ray) VOODOO MAN (Blu-ray) The “monsters” of this film are a band of innocent-faced, platinum-blond children. voodoo. driver. dexter. jason. calvin. freddy. creative. a. sydney. rush asdfghjk. red bubba. passw0rd. Punk Rock from Riverside, California. Est. BANDE ANNONCE MOM 2014 MOVIES TORRENTS If ports backup process from exists, the Broaden however Request confirm Zoom's are to. Anyone can time not across mobile Trial the. Bugfix performance that supports license projects stating other things Bugfix use a solution to 30 system is that very the 3D. Sampai is them all en may.

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Morning Nerd 51! Sorry for the late entry This was his theme wasn't it? How was the show, Meg? The concerts were great! Two in a row! And Elwyn better be out getting fruitcups, dammit! You'll have a blast! If you bring a crutch, you can get special seating!

Do they have BEER! They have a guy walking around selling Guinness. You have my blessing to give Elwyn a good ribbing. It was at a new wave club and it wasn't sold out. I stood near the back with the two brave middle-aged folkies who attended. Sort of keeping them company. Whistling in a song is geeky I had literally 2. I hate that Coney Island is getting a face lift. He brushes past Luis, who offers his hand. Price smiles, says something, moves on, strides over to our table. He hands me the drink then sits down, crossing his legs.

Part two, which tie knot looks best with them? I turn around to see who it is. Now shut up and listen. I want a blow-job, Bateman. I just want some chick whose face I can sit on for thirty, forty minutes. McDermott rolls his eyes up.

We all take this in solemnly. No one says anything but we are all thinking the same thought: Never pick up a Vassar girl. He bends down, balancing himself by putting a hand on the back of my chair. No babes, no blow, no brew.

She calls her father—get this—Billy. You got one? It looks a helluva lot like him. Over there. You spin a dreidel. By the way, nice jacket; nonmatching but complementary. Finish it. One hand on my cock, one hand on my balls, go on. Now it looks to me like his silk bow tie is by Agnes B. Preston looks at me. Because the last time I fucked a nigger she stole my wallet.

And after a short moment of silence, the table cracks up too, except for me. Van Patten gives him high-five. Even Price laughs. Will see you tomorrow. Preston leans forward before leaving. After we piled into a cab on Water Street we realized that no one had made reservations anywhere and while debating the merits of a new Californian-Sicilian bistro on the Upper East Side—my panic so great I almost ripped Zagat in two—the consensus seemed to emerge.

He slipped his Walkman on and turned the volume up so loud that the sound of Vivaldi was audible even with the windows halfway open and the noise of the uptown traffic blasting into the taxi. Things seem to be going smoothly. Plus there are four women at the table opposite ours, all great-looking—blond, big tits: one is wearing a chemise dress in double-faced wool by Calvin Klein, another is wearing a wool knit dress and jacket with silk faille bonding by Geoffrey Beene, another is wearing a symmetrical skirt of pleated tulle and an embroidered velvet bustier by, I think, Christian Lacroix plus high-heeled shoes by Sidonie Larizzi, and the last one is wearing a black strapless sequined gown under a wool crepe tailored jacket by Bill Blass.

Price orders the tapas and then the venison with yogurt sauce and fiddlehead ferns with mango slices. McDermott orders the sashimi with goat cheese and then the smoked duck with endive and maple syrup. Van Patten has the scallop sausage and the grilled salmon with raspberry vinegar and guacamole. The busboy humbly removes the glasses, nodding to no one as he walks away. Look who just came in. Paul Owen? He has obviously been spotted by the person and flashes a bright, toothy smile.

Scott Montgomery walks over to our booth wearing a double- breasted navy blue blazer with mock-tortoiseshell buttons, a prewashed wrinkled-cotton striped dress shirt with red accent stitching, a red, white and blue fireworks-print silk tie by Hugo Boss and plum washed-wool trousers with a quadruple-pleated front and slashed pockets by Lazo. High-heeled shoes by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards.

Sunglasses by Alain Mikli. Get the check yet? Just kidding. Nicki slinks behind him. I was wrong: she does have an ass. Anorexic, alcoholic, uptight bitch. Totally French. I want to fuck her. I want to marry her. I want her to have my children. Fuck off, you faggots. Take a look. Not bad, huh? Dizzy, I sip my drink then take a deep breath.

I am unexpectedly depressed that I started this. Red snapper? My card lies on the table, ignored next to an orchid in a blue glass vase. Gently I pick it up and slip it, folded, back into my wallet. Shut up. There are now eight Bellinis on the table. A pizza should be yeasty and slightly bready and have a cheesy crust! The crusts here are too fucking thin because the shithead chef who cooks here overbakes everything!

The pizza is dried out and brittle! A hardbody waitress stands looking down at me with this strange, glazed expression. I wipe a hand over my face, genially smiling up at her. She stands there looking at me as if I were some kind of monster—she actually looks scared—and I glance over at Price—for what? She flinches but I smile and she lets me pull her closer. So, you know, warn him. The left knee is knobbier, almost imperceptibly thicker than the right knee and this unnoticeable flaw now seems overwhelming and we all lose interest.

Where do you go? But when he sees no one else laughing he stops. There are things one could do with it besides getting a tan. It makes me not hungry but our meals arrive almost immediately after our appetizers are taken away and we begin to eat. McDermott undoes his suspenders. Price calls him a slob. I feel paralyzed but manage to turn away from Owen and stare at my plate the potpie a yellow hexagon, strips of smoked salmon circling it, squiggles of pea-green tomatillo sauce artfully surrounding the dish and then I gaze at the waiting crowd.

They seem hostile, drunk on complimentary Bellinis perhaps, tired of waiting hours for shitty tables near the open kitchen even though they had reservations. Van Patten interrupts the silence at our table by slamming his fork down and pushing his chair back.

I sigh and put the fork down, hopeless. I have to tape this movie on cable for Mandy. I think I gave thumbs-up to Conrad. Once she leaves, McDermott asks if we liked the food. I tell him the potpie was fine but there was way too much tomatillo sauce. The hardbody brings the check over. We split it but I need the cash so I put it on my platinum AmEx and collect their bills, mostly fresh fifties. McDermott demands ten dollars back since his scallop sausage appetizer was only sixteen bucks.

Outside Pastels a different bum sits in the street, with a sign that says something completely illegible. He gently asks us for some change and then, more hopefully, for some food. He gives me high-five. Price handles this all suavely, somehow, either by tipping the dorks or by persuading them with his clout probably the former.

It gets quieter as we move into the front hallway, heading toward the actual entrance, and we pass by three hardbodies. Those girls were very hot. Subtlety is not what these girls are after. Van Patten laughs and still in motion they give each other high-five. We hand our tickets to an okay-looking girl wearing a wool-melton duffel coat and a silk scarf from Hermes.

These are some skanky chicks. I can just feel it. The music is so loud that conversation is possible only by screaming. The club is fairly packed; the only real light coming in flashes off the dance floor. Everyone is wearing a tuxedo. Everyone is drinking champagne. The guy who lets them pass is wearing a double-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton wing-collar shirt by Cerruti and a black and white checkered silk bow tie from Martin Dingman Neckwear.

Madison stands around, nodding to various people who pass by in the crush. Finally Price loses his cool. Great to meet you, Hugh. Use your drink tickets. You, Hugh, Who, fades into the crowd. I follow Price over to the railings. As a joke I almost bring Tim a Bellini but he seems far too edgy tonight to appreciate this so I wade back through the crowd to where he stands and hand him the Absolut and he takes it thanklessly and finishes it with one gulp, looks at the glass and grimaces, giving me an accusatory look.

I shrug helplessly. He resumes staring at the train tracks as if possessed. There are very few chicks in Tunnel tonight. Carruthers is out of town. Ice cubes clank loudly, surprising me. She expects to be paid. They all do. I get bored watching Price, who is neither moving nor speaking. The only reason he occasionally turns away from the train tracks is to look for Madison or Ricardo. No women anywhere, just an army of professionals from Wall Street in tuxedos.

He sticks his own platinum American Express card into the powder, bringing it up to his nose to inhale it. I do some of it and come to the same conclusion. Price stares at me, eyes widening in disbelief, then flies into a rage and whirls around, pounding his fist against the side of the stall.

Price leans against the door of our stall and stares at me in this hopeless way. Stepping out of the stall we wash our hands, inspecting our reflections in the mirror, and, once satisfied, head back to the Chandelier Room. I finally have to lay a twenty on the counter to get her attention, even though I have plenty of drink tickets left.

It works. Taking advantage of the drink tickets, I order two double Stolis on the rocks. She pours the drinks in front of me. She shakes her head again. Not Hunter. She continues to concentrate on the bottle of Stoli. I decide not to continue the conversation and just slap the drink tickets on the bar as she places the two glasses in front of me. I leave the cunt no tip and find Price who is standing again, morosely, by the railings, his hands gripping the steel bars.

Price says nothing, not even thanks. He just holds the drink and mournfully stares at the tracks and then he squints and bends his head down to the glass and when the strobe lights start flashing, he stands up straight and murmurs something to himself. There seem to be more girls in the Chandelier Room now and I try to make eye contact with one of them —model type with big tits. Price nudges me and I lean in to ask if we should perhaps get another gram. Is that Conrad?

Owen pulls out a cigar, then asks for a light. The Chandelier Room is packed and everyone looks familiar, everyone looks the same. Cigar smoke hangs heavy, floating in midair, and the music, INXS again, is louder than ever, but building toward what? I touch my brow by mistake and my fingers come back wet. At the bar I pick up some matches. On my way back through the crowd I bump into McDermott and Van Patten, who start begging me for more drink tickets.

No hardbodies. Behind him the strobe light continues to flash off and on and off and on and the smoke machine is going like crazy, gray mist billowing up, enveloping him. Only a few of the faces are fixated on Tim, still balancing on the railing, eyes half closed, shouting something. He stumbles once, twice, with the strobe light flashing, in what looks like slow motion, but he regains his composure before disappearing into blackness.

A security guard sits idly by the railing as Price recedes into the tunnel. He just shakes his head, I think. Come back! Madison is standing nearby and sticks his hand out as if to congratulate me for something.

Twelve-thirty and we watch limousines try to make left turns onto the West Side Highway. The three of us, Van Patten, McDermott and myself, discuss the possibilities of finding this new club called Nekenieh. Then private workout. I have taken out a gold Cross pen to write down the name of the restaurant in my address book. The doors shut. I am wearing a mini-houndstooth-check wool suit with pleated trousers by Hugo Boss, a silk tie, also by Hugo Boss, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Joseph Abboud and shoes from Brooks Brothers.

I flossed too hard this morning and I can still taste the coppery residue of swallowed blood in the back of my throat. I pull my Walkman off from around my neck as I approach her desk. She looks up and smiles shyly. Any messages?

And what should I say? I sigh and place my hands together, sitting down at the Palazzetti glass-top desk, the halogen lamps on both sides already burning. All right? I get up and move all these sporting magazines from the forties—they cost me thirty bucks apiece—that I bought at Funchies, Bunkers, Gaks and Gleeks, and then I lift the Stubbs painting off the wall and balance it on the table then sit back at my desk and fiddle with the pencils I keep in a vintage German beer stein I got from Man-tiques.

The Stubbs looks good in either place. Listen, keep your eyes open for a tanning bed, okay? Remind me to return the videotapes I rented last night back to the store. That sounds good. And Jean? I mean how else are you going to keep up that devilishly handsome skin tone? I have a great secretary. She comes into the office five minutes later with the Perrier, a wedge of lime and the Ransom file, which she did not need to bring, and I am vaguely touched by her almost total devotion to me.

Wear a dress. A skirt or something. The phone on her desk rings. She turns to leave. In the two years since I signed up as a member, it has been remodeled three times and though they carry the latest weight machines Nautilus, Universal, Keiser they have a vast array of free weights which I like to use also.

Membership runs five thousand dollars annually. Satisfied, I turn the Walkman on, the volume up, and leave the locker room. Cheryl, this dumpy chick who is in love with me, sits at her desk up front signing people in, reading one of the gossip columns in the Post, and she brightens up noticeably when she sees me approaching. No hardbodies at the gym today. Only faggots from the West Side, probably unemployed actors, waiters by night, and Muldwyn Butner of Sachs, who I went to Exeter with, over at the biceps curl machine.

Butner is wearing a pair of knee-length nylon and Lycra shorts with checkerboard inserts and a cotton and Lycra tank top and leather Reeboks. I finish twenty minutes on the Stairmaster and let the overmuscled, bleached-blond, middle-aged faggot behind me use it and I commence with stretching exercises.

The topic was Big Breasts and there was a woman on it who had a breast reduction since she thought her tits were too big— the dumb bitch. I immediately called McDermott who was also watching it and we both ridiculed the woman through the rest of the segment. I do about fifteen minutes of stretching before heading off to the Nautilus machines. I used to have a personal trainer whom Luis Carruthers had recommended but he came on to me last fall and I decided to develop my own fitness program which incorporates both aerobic exercises and training.

With weights I alternate between free weights and weight machines that use hydraulic, pneumatic or electromechanical resistance. Most of the machines are very efficient since computerized keypads allow one to make adjustments in weight resistance without getting up. The positive aspects of the machines include minimizing muscle soreness and reducing any chance of injury.

On the leg machines I do five sets of ten repetitions. For the back I also do five sets of ten repetitions. Before moving to the free weights I spend twenty minutes on the exercise bike while reading the new issue of Money magazine.

For the chest I do three sets and twenty reps of incline-bench presses. For the front deltoids I also do three sets of lateral raises and seated dumbbell presses. Finally, for the triceps I do three sets and twenty reps of cable pushdowns and close- grip bench presses. I buy Lesbian Vibrator Bitches and Cunt on Cunt along with the current Sports Illustrated and the new issue of Esquire, even though I subscribe to them and both have already arrived in the mail.

I wait until the stand is empty to make my purchase. The vendor says something, motions toward his hook nose, while handing me the magazines along with my change. It comes away red, wet with blood. I reach into my Hugo Boss overcoat and bring out a Polo handkerchief and wipe the blood away, nod my thanks, slip my Wayfarer aviator sunglasses back on and leave.

Fucking Iranian. When it dawns on him that I want to ask something, he sighs, rolls his eyes up and tells whoever is on the line to hold on. Maybe even please? I am something unreal, something not quite tangible, yet still an obstacle of sorts and he nods, gets back on the phone, resumes speaking in a dialect totally alien to me. I collect my mail—Polo catalog, American Express bill, June Playboy, invitation to an office party at a new club called Bedlam— then walk to the elevator, step in while inspecting the Ralph Lauren brochure and press the button for my floor and then the Close Door button, but someone gets in right before the doors shut and instinctively I turn to say hello.

I thought it was quite a good movie, and Top Gun too. I really thought that was good. Not Bartender. The film was called Cocktail. Pat Bateman. We stand there in silence. While loosening my Matisse- inspired blue silk tie from Bill Robinson I dial her number and walk across the apartment, cordless phone in hand, to flip on the air- conditioning.

She answers on the third ring. Can I call you back? I go into the bedroom and take off what I was wearing today: a herringbone wool suit with pleated trousers by Giorgio Correggiari, a cotton oxford shirt by Ralph Lauren, a knit tie from Paul Stuart and suede shoes from Cole-Haan. After ten minutes of stretching, the phone rings and I wait six rings to answer it. I put her on hold for two minutes, then get back on the line. I open the refrigerator and take out a liter of Evian.

The two of us. I want you to do what you want to do. I mean for us? I just wanted you to see them. What are you doing? Listen, calm down, okay? With trembling fingers I dial the number. Panicked, I put the phone on Constant Redial and for the next five minutes nothing but a busy signal, faithful and ominous, repeats itself across the line. Stunned, feverish, feeling empty, I contemplate the next move, the only sound the dial tone buzzing noisily from the receiver. Gather my bearings, count to six, reopen the Zagat guide and steadily regain my concentration against the almost overwhelming panic about securing an eight-thirty reservation somewhere if not as trendy as Dorsia then at least in the next-best league.

I take a hot shower and afterwards use a new facial scrub by Caswell-Massey and a body wash by Greune, then a body moisturizer by Lubriderm and a Neutrogena facial cream. I debate between two outfits. One is a wool- crepe suit by Bill Robinson I bought at Saks with this cotton jacquard shirt from Charivari and an Armani tie. Or a wool and cashmere sport coat with blue plaid, a cotton shirt and pleated wool trousers by Alexander Julian, with a polka-dot silk tie by Bill Blass.

A bottle of Scharffenberger is on ice in a Spiros spun-aluminum bowl which is in a Christine Van der Hurd etched-glass champagne cooler which sits on a Cristofle silver-plated bar tray. I have a glass of it while waiting for her, occasionally rearranging the Steuben animals on the glass-top coffee table by Turchin, or sometimes I flip through the last hardcover book I bought, something by Garrison Keillor.

Patricia is late. This is simply how the world, my world, moves. She gives a little gasp when I drop the news, ignores the apologies and turns away from me to glare out the window. Her eyes, I swear, intermittently tear. She orders the red snapper with violets and pine nuts and for an appetizer a peanut butter soup with smoked duck and mashed squash which sounds strange but is actually quite good. The cab stops outside Tunnel.

I pay the fare and leave the driver a decent tip and hold the door open for Patricia who ignores my hand when I try to help her step out of the cab. No one stands outside the ropes tonight. Once inside, after paying fifty dollars for the two of us, I head immediately to the bar without really caring if Patricia follows.

She wants a Perrier, no lime, and orders this herself. Patricia and myself are the only two customers in the entire club. We are, except for the occasional hardbody, literally the only two people in Tunnel. I move past them as they stand by the bar drinking champagne and head over toward this extremely well-dressed Mexican-looking guy sitting on a couch.

I ask the guy if his name is Ricardo. He nods. I pull my wallet out and hand over a fifty and two twenties. He asks the Eurotrash chick for her purse. She hands him a velvet bag by Anne Moore. Ricardo reaches in and hands me a tiny folded envelope. Before I leave, the Eurotrash girl tells me she likes my gazelleskin wallet. Back upstairs I find Patricia where I left her, alone at the bar, nursing a Perrier. Listen, do you want to do some coke?

She puts her drink down on the bar and follows me through the deserted club, up the stairs toward the rest rooms. She comes back apologizing for her behavior earlier this evening. But, oh yeah, I really loved the food at Barcadia. How long has it been open? I read a great review in New York or maybe it was Gourmet. Avatar is such a great lead singer and I actually thought I was in love with him once—well, actually I was in lust, not love.

Hand I am thinking. Shirt from Charivari. Fusilli I am thinking. Jami Gertz I am thinking. I would like to fuck Jami Gertz I am thinking. Porsche A sharpei I am thinking. I would like to own a sharpei. I am twenty-six years old I am thinking. I will be twenty-seven next year. A Valium. I would like a Valium. No, two Valium I am thinking. Cellular phone I am thinking. Dry Cleaners The Chinese dry cleaners I usually send my bloody clothes to delivered back to me yesterday a Soprani jacket, two white Brooks Brothers shirts and a tie from Agnes B.

I have a lunch appointment at noon—in forty minutes—and beforehand I decide to stop by the cleaners and complain. In addition to the Soprani jacket, the shirts and tie, I bring along a bag of bloodstained sheets that also need cleaning. Because of this excursion I have no time for a morning workout, and since I overslept, owing to a late-night—predawn coke binge with Charles Griffin and Hilton Ashbury that started innocently enough at a magazine party none of us were invited to at M.

I look sharp but my stomach is doing flip-flops, my brain is churning. Did I do this on purpose? Or did I do this accidentally? The old woman keeps jabbering in what I guess is Chinese and finally I have to interrupt. I brush her hand away and, leaning in, speak very slowly. Oh my god. Out of the question. These are very expensive sheets and I really need them clean. Her face overall, maybe because of the wrinkles, seems oddly expressionless.

Then, casually, I cut her off, talking over her again. I have never firebombed anything and I start wondering how one goes about it—what materials are involved, gasoline, matches … or would it be lighter fluid? You want some ham? Is that what you just said?

You want … some ham? Her husband stands behind the counter, sullen and detached. She jabbers back, undaunted, pointing relentlessly at the stains on the sheets. Taking off her sunglasses she offers a wide smile. Coming all the way up here, but you know they really are the best. I glare at her, forcing myself not to mimic the hand gestures. Oh really? You said Samantha. I examine her carefully in the seconds it takes to move from the edge of the sidewalk to the steps leading up to the brownstone where she sits, her head bowed down, staring dumbly into her empty lap.

She looks up, unsmiling, after she notices me standing over her. Did I say that? I think you should concentrate on wearing a belt that coordinates with the trousers. Hamlin is wearing a suit by Lubiam, a great-looking striped spread-collar cotton shirt from Burberry, a silk tie by Resikeio and a belt from Ralph Lauren. Anthony rests on an empty chair by our table. One of our CD Walkman headsets lies in the middle of the table surrounded by drinks and a calculator.

Reeves and Hamlin left the office early today for facials somewhere and they both look good, faces pink but tan, hair short and slicked back. I knew that. Trent is wearing a mini-houndstooth-check worsted wool suit with multicolored overplaid.

Is that Trent Moore? He puts on his clear prescription eyeglasses just to make sure. Paul Owen stops by our table on his way out. Reeves and Hamlin and I shake their hands without standing up. Owen turns his attention my way, which makes me slightly nervous.

Before they leave, Denton looks over at our table, at me, one last time, and he seems panicked, convinced of something by my presence, as if he recognized me from somewhere, and this, in turn, freaks me out. Total hardbody. What if they have a good personality? Survival of the species, right? He was an interesting guy. All of them. One part of me wants to take her out and talk to her and be real nice and sweet and treat her right.

Hamlin and Reeves look at each other and then back at me before I start laughing, and then the two of them uneasily join in. Deck Chairs Courtney Lawrence invites me out to dinner on Monday night and the invitation seems vaguely sexual so I accept, but part of the catch is that we have to endure dinner with two Camden graduates, Scott and Anne Smiley, at a new restaurant they chose on Columbus called Deck Chairs, a place I had my secretary research so thoroughly that she presented me with three alternative menus of what I should order before I left the office today.

Or have a Diet Coke. Some caffeine might get you out of this slump. Courtney is wearing a wool jacket and vest, a wool jersey T-shirt and wool gabardine pants by Bill Blass, crystal, enamel and gold-plated earrings by Gerard E. I am wearing a custom-made tweed jacket, pants and a cotton shirt from the Alan Flusser shop and a silk tie by Paul Stuart.

There was a twenty-minute wait at the Stairmaster machine at my health club this morning. I wave to a beggar on the corner of Forty-ninth and Eighth, then give him the finger. She needs more makeup, the Ralph Lauren tweed outfit is too severe. No baby vegetables? Scallops in burritos? Wasabi crackers? Am I on the right track? And by the way, did anyone ever tell you that you look exactly like Garfield but run over and skinned and then someone threw an ugly Ferragamo sweater over you before they rushed you to the vet?

Olive oil on Brie? For an appetizer I ordered radicchio with some kind of free-range squid. Anne and Scott both had the monkfish ragout with violets. Our waitress is a little hardbody who is wearing gold faux-pearl tasseled lizard sling-back pumps. I forgot to return my videotapes to the store tonight and I curse myself silently while Scott orders two large bottles of San Pellegrino. A waiter, though not the hardbody, strides over to take another drink order.

Courtney orders a champagne on the rocks, which secretly appalls me. Do I really want a chardonnay? We can eat the redfish with a cabernet. The waiter smiles, confused. The Acacia. Who knows why? And who fucking cares? I know how much you like the Acacia. It has a cleaner taste. It mixes better with rum and has a lower sodium content. The new Stephen Bishop came out last Tuesday and at Tower Records yesterday I bought the compact disc, the cassette and the album because I wanted to own all three formats.

Courtney reaches over and touches my wrist gently, stroking my Rolex. It really is. He really does. An Onica? I give her a sharp look and try not to hiss. It warns: Kick me again and no pussy, do you understand? I hold my breath, my face tight with tension. I exhale. Anne answers for Courtney. I own one. That shuts him up for a minute. Looking for an Advil? I hear you.

I watch as my cock moves in then out then into her vagina with long fast strokes. Get off me. I moan. She hunches back against the headboard and my dick slides out. What did you say? Is it a sorbet? Is your lithium really a sorbet? So it can catch the force of the ejaculate!

You dumb bitch? Are you happy, you dumb bitch? Jean is wearing a red stretch-silk jacket, a crocheted rayon-ribbon skirt, red suede pumps with satin bows by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards and gold-plated earrings by Robert Lee Morris. She stands there, in front of me, oblivious to my pain, a file in her hand. After pretending to ignore her for close to a minute, I finally lower my sunglasses and clear my throat. Something else? Grouchy today. I am Mr. They want to meet you at Fluties at six. My complexion is still excellent.

Three drops of Visine clear the eyes. An ice pack tightens the skin. All it comes down to is: I feel like shit but look great. What shapes was it cut into? Was it heated? Goat cheese? Were there flowers or cilantro in it? Were they sashimi scallops? In a ceviche of sorts? Two bottles. Janet Leigh was from Phoenix. Disappointing scene. Would you like to join us? He looks down as if stunned, and then blushing, embarrassed, he touches his own lapel.

You look great too … as usual. He nods and sits across from us at the table. I smile, raising my eyebrows at McDermott, who sullenly takes the seat next to mine. He sighs and opens the newspaper, silently reading. Finally, sensing that Luis is about to ask something, I turn to McDermott. I count to three then whirl around, catching Luis leaning toward me trying to eavesdrop.

It is. You read the review in the Times, right? Read this. What a lousy photo. What does it mean? What are you, McDermott, trying to tell me? The fragrances of Xeryus and Tuscany and Armani and Obsession and Polo and Grey Flannel and even Antaeus mingle, wafting into each other, rising from the suits and into the air, forming their own mixture: a cold, sickening perfume.

Greg McBride walks in and stops by my chair. God knows where they came from. Felicia screwed it up somehow. The video store is more crowded than usual. I want something else. There are too many fucking movies to choose from. I duck behind a promotional cardboard display for the new Dan Aykroyd comedy and take two five-milligram Valiums, washing them down with the Diet Pepsi.

I hand her the empty boxes. She hands the guy behind her my boxes—and I pretend to ignore his horrified reaction as he recognizes me after he looks at the Body Double box—but he dutifully walks into some kind of vault in the back of the store to get the movies. You know the ones. She types the names of the movies and then my membership number into the computer. A grainy photograph of one of these things accompanies the article, but experts, the Post assures us, are fairly certain this new breed is a hoax.

As usual this fails to soothe my fear, and it fills me with a nameless dread that someone out there has wasted the energy and time to think this up: to fake a photograph and do a half-assed job at that, the thing looks like a fucking Big Mac and send the photograph in to the Post, then for the Post to decide to run the story meetings, debates, last-minute temptations to cancel the whole thing? I close the paper and lie back, exhausted. She smiles, sitting in a chair at my feet, and begins the pedicure.

Helga arrives. But Helga drapes the smock gently across my heaving chest and buttons it up, pretending to ignore the undulations beneath the tan, clean skin. Who do they belong to? How old are you? May I ask? So smooth. Jeannie comes in and starts the manicure, first clipping and filing the nails, then brushing them with a sandpaper disk to smooth out the remaining edges.

Silently she soaks them in warm lanolin cream, then dries both hands off and uses a cuticle moisturizer, then removes all the cuticles while cleaning under the nails with a cotton-on-wood stick. A heat vibrator massages the hand and forearm. The nails are buffed first with chamois and then with buffing lotion.

Where were you? I still am. Ask Mia, my facialist. She said I was tense. Can you hear me? The Patty Winters Show this morning was about the possibility of nuclear war, and according to the panel of experts the odds are pretty good it will happen sometime within the next month. In a separate glass.

What are you wearing—Obsession? You party pooper, is it Obsession? If you can believe it. Call it quits. She smiles to herself, secretly. But what if I forced her at gunpoint? I start counting the banquettes that encircle the room, then I start counting the people sitting in the banquettes. You know, if you order a bottle of Cristal it should at least be, you know, cold.

The word Arizona has a mysterious tinge to it and I say it again. I think. Is that …? I whirl around. Our hardbody waitress, who has on satin high-backed pumps, sets down two new champagne flutes for the second bottle of Cristal Evelyn orders. The waitress pouts her lips at me when I reach for another breadstick and I lift my head toward her and pout mine back, then press my head again into the palms of my hands, and this happens again when she brings our appetizers. Immediately the whine seems deafening.

Suggestions, hon? You do know that, right? Bateman, I really like you. I adore your sense of humor. Evelyn really is paying me a compliment. She does admire my sense of humor. She ordered quail stuffed into blue corn tortillas garnished with oysters in potato skins. I have the free-range rabbit with Oregon morels and herbed french fries. Her dialogue overlaps her own dialogue. Shoestring french fries surround it and chunky red salsa has been smeared across the top of the plate— which is white and porcelain and two feet wide—to give the appearance of a sunset but it looks like one big gunshot wound to me and shaking my head slowly in disbelief I press a finger into the meat, leaving the indentation of one finger, then another, and then I look for a napkin, not my own, to wipe my hand with.

I pick up my champagne glass instead. Club Chernoble, covered by Page Six. Billy covered it. WWD did a layout. She had a diamond engagement ring. The gown was by Ralph and it was white lace and low-cut and sleeveless. It was darling. Oh Patrick, what would you wear? Or reggae. Something ethnic to shock Daddy. And oysters. Oysters on the half shell. Pink tents. Hundreds, thousands of roses. Annie Leibovitz. My essence is eluding her. She stops her onslaught and breathes in and looks at me in a way that can only be described as dewy-eyed.

I take the champagne glass away from her and sniff its rim. Three years. Three months. Believe me, I was there. Two hours later they were on the Concorde. To London. Ignoring her, I reach into my pocket for a cigar, pull it out and tap it against the table.

Evelyn orders three flavors of sorbet: peanut, licorice and doughnut.

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