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ARTICHOKE BALLS AND OYSTER PANTIES
On any random London afternoon, Simon's flat in Kensington was a comfortable refuge for wayward namesakes and well-heeled
liars. The phone line was usually tied up by the bloated offspring of some real estate tycoon or another, arguing with his
stepmother. Camped out in front of the fridge you'd find the Arab prince of a small, oil rich, possibly fictional country,
gobbling up caviar straight from the jar. In the bathroom, an American heiress claiming to be the grand daughter of the genius
who invented the Styrofoam peanut would be skillfully vomiting up an egg and watercress sandwich.
There was a large window that led to the roof. Simon would often take his silver flask filled with Glenfiddich and his
Dunhill cigarettes out there, gleefully shouting out "Why hello there tiger!" to unsuspecting shoppers below.
When the mood struck him and when everyone was sufficiently sauced, he would turn up his Calypso music, and the tropical
beat of songs like "The Big Bamboo" and "Zombie Jamboree" would fill the living room. He would then instruct us on high society
Bahamian dancing, admonishing us when we swung our hips with too much sensual abandon:
"No no no. Wrong! Restraint my dear, restraint. Excess gyration is for the Great Unwashed. No one who is anyone wants
to look as though they are exerting themselves too much. In any endeavor. Remember the Gentleman's C."
Simon's flat was pre-furnished. From the dull Gainsborough and Constable reproductions on the walls to the chintz lampshades;
everything had been purchased by someone else. The resulting décor suffered from an aesthetic apathy usually reserved for
dentist's offices. The only personalized touch was the glass coffee table, which had been turned into a curio cabinet of sorts.
Rammed underneath the glass were three Bahamian dollar bills, an article about a man who caught a 50 pound salmon with a tuft
of his wife's pubic hair, a leaflet advertising the skills of Stiletto Sally and two stained Joker cards.
One night we were gathered there, an odd collection of expensive black sheep; mistakes from pregnant mistresses, the spare
not the heir, the karmic whiplash occurring at an inopportune moment, just after mummy had gone to Switzerland to get those
awful stretch marks removed.
While drinking Simon's lethal gin and tonics, we were all spewing gorgeous lies about our summer holiday plans. The Spaniard
was going to suck honey off the toes of Brazilian models in Morocco. The Belgian was going to Hong Kong to smoke opium with
14 Chinese concubines in a silk covered room. But when it came to this American exchange student, dressed in an earnest plaid
shirt, who was there as somebody's idea of a novelty item, he said quietly;
"Oh, I guess I'm going back to Wyoming...and work in my dad's office."
A stunned pall fell across the room. It was all too shocking for words. Someone was actually telling the truth, unadorned.
A few loaded seconds passed before Simon took a drag off his cigarette and said slowly;
"Oh dear. Work and WHY-OH-MING."
Simon had no desire to hear tedious truths, particularly about someplace as vague and devoid of intrigue as Wyoming. The
truth, if not interesting, was unnecessary. Those too lazy or witless to create a scintillating life story were deemed unworthy
plodders. As such, the welcome mat of Simon's Kensington flat was only rolled out for the deftest of liars. Simon had twisted
his own life story enough, why shouldn't others make the same effort? For Simon, the lying even warped his vowel sounds, the
cadence of his sentence structure.
Bahamian by birth, and having attended high school in America, Simon had fashioned a peculiar English accent for himself.
It sounded more drag queen than Queen's English. It was so over the top that taxi drivers routinely took him the long way
home to punish him for his ridiculous attempt at native elocution. Of course, his odd accent was only another prop for his
image. With his hand carved walking stick, silk scarves and cigarette holder, he struggled to emulate a prototype that had
long since vanished.
To Simon, England had promised visions of strawberries and champagne, public school boys with names like Colin or Rupert
wearing pristine white cricket outfits and young lovers boating down the Thames.
Of course, what he found when he got to London was far less E.M. Forester or Evelyn Waugh and far more Hanif Kureishi
or Zadie Smith than he'd bargained for.
"I don't understand," he'd say petulantly. "What happened to ENGLAND? I look around and there is grime and graffiti everywhere,
most of it grammatically incorrect. Drug dealers jabber away in neighborhood pubs, and vile people are out in the streets,
passing out advertisements for vulgar cafes and cheap religion. It's all so dreary. Plus, I have almost no English friends.
Look around. If it wasn't for Sebastian, I wouldn't know anyone."
He smiled dreamily, something he always did when he mentioned Sebastian's name. Sebastian had nearly every qualification
on Simon's list. He was a bona fide aristocrat with tousled caramel colored hair, an aquiline nose and creamy skin that turned
the sweetest shade of pink in the cold. He spoke the Queen's English. He had long skeletal fingers and high arched, slender
feet.
Simon clung to any link that connected them and rehashed the most mundane details about the time they spent together like
an obsessed groupie. He repeatedly told us the story about how
"Sebastian and I were at a restaurant down the street. We were both hung over from the previous night's libations and
he opened the menu and said, 'Let's have the artichoke balls and oyster panties.' Oyster panties! It was so droll. The menu
actually read 'oyster patties', of course. They were quite delicious."
Sebastian, like everyone who hung around Simon's flat, hid a couple of secrets, though not very well. He was both a lousy
gambler and a heroin addict. Consequently he was perpetually broke. But this is what made their relationship so delectable
to Simon, even if he never said it out loud: Sebastian needed him. He was permanently in debt to him. He needed a constant
flow of money and a place to crash when he was too high to face his parents. Simon was happy to oblige him on both accounts.
For Sebastian's part, their peculiar friendship made him a bit queasy at times, but his heroin addiction was stronger
than his sense of pride. Thankfully, he knew he'd never run into any of his friends at Simon's flat, amidst the horror-show
of falsified pedigrees and Euro-trash idiots. Such an appalling lot. Simon had even bragged to them once that his parents
were BUYING him a title, as if it were a toilet seat. He was such a foolish cartoon, a nouveau riche buffoon. To Sebastian,
it was a totally embarrassing and yet completely necessary friendship.
As for Simon, he thought he might be in love with Sebastian, but he couldn't be too sure. His sexuality was starting to
confuse him. Over the course of his twenty-four years he had slept with women on a fairly regular basis. Sex with women was
pleasant, and he had few complaints. The one or two homosexual indiscretions he'd had in his teens seemed more like a rite
de passage than definitive sexual nature.
Still, while Simon often wondered if he were really gay, the straight life was attractive in its simplicity. Married life
was less complicated, and made for a nice, traditional Christmas photo. More than anything, it was convenient. And that was
the key. Simon often said that his years of education in America had instilled in him a desire for "North American Convenience".
This tended to encompass such things as large dishwashers and prepackaged Deli meats.
Unable to reconcile his feelings for Sebastian and his need for convenience in both sliced ham and romance, he decided
he would make a greater effort to remain straight. It led to an unusual evening. He recounted the story to me one boozy night
after resigning to the fact that I would never master the dance style of privileged Bahamian society. I was still too wanton
with my hips for his taste. Worse, I was hopelessly middle class. But since I happened to be the only person around, he made
due with my company. I doubt he was pleased. It was like substituting satin pajamas for silk.
Equipped with the flask of Glenfiddich, two Baccarat highball glasses, a packet of Dunhills and my sub par skills as a
raconteur, we climbed out the window onto the roof. After we sat down, poured the scotch into the glasses, and made our usual
"Balls to Monty!" toast he said,
"Last night I bonded with Khalid in the most inexcusable way."
I tried to adjust my eyes. Even though it was still early, I was already quite inebriated. Plus, I had just fabricated
a charming childhood of breeding Shetland ponies on a farm in Virginia, and was feeling a bit exhausted. Telling geographically
and zoologically accurate lies wasn't easy.
"Khalid?" I asked stupidly.
Simon sighed. As I said, I was not his favorite guest. I tended to repeat my jokes and seemed overly fond of milk products.
"Yes Khalid. From your political science class. Claims to be a prince. He wears those dreadful tasseled loafers with jeans
all the time."
I nodded.
"Yes well, the two of us shared a hooker. I know it's a bit sordid, but to be honest, I was concerned about him. The poor
boy is twenty-two years old and I think before last night the closest he'd ever come to a sexual relationship was when he
was "touched" once by a woman in Estonia...Then again, I suppose I can't really fault him. There could be cultural differences.
Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a Halberg family like we do in the Bahamas."
"A Halberg family?"
He slapped my arm. "Do stop repeating everything I say. Yes. The Halbergs. Very wealthy Swedish family in Nassau. Very
prolific too. It seems like there are hundreds of Halbergs. The island is absolutely teeming with them. All blonde with names
like Lars, Inga and Olaf. With so many of them running about, there's a well-known saying in certain Bahamian circles: "Darling,
EVERYONE'S fucked a Halberg." I must admit I got my education rather early behind the guesthouse with Gustaf Halberg. Big
hands, that boy."
"Anyway," he said, lighting a Dunhill, "Khalid and I called up the Chelsea Escort Service. They supposedly have a better
class of whore. The English class system. What would Anthony Trollope say about The Chelsea Escort Service I wonder? Well,
they tell us there are two girls available. One is a German called Bettina and the other is an English girl whose name I kid
you not is Sharon. Right then I decided I wanted the Kraut, but silly Khalid thought we'd have a language problem. I said
"LANGUAGE PROBLEM?" I mean, what did he expect to discuss? Gardening techniques? The Maastricht treaty? The best mouthwash
to cleanse away subtle tang of bodily fluids? But he kept saying he wanted to buy British and rambled on about how great Marks
and Spencer underpants are. I don't know. He's a bit odd sometimes."
Simon rolled over and purposely blew smoke in my face, to make sure I was awake. When I coughed he continued:
"As soon as she walked in the door, I knew it was going to be a desultory experience. I thought the Chelsea Escort Service
would send over some nice Sloane Ranger type. You know, with a tweed skirt and shiny hair, brushed a hundred times each night
with an ivory hairbrush. Of course, underneath she'd be wearing lacy underpants and black stockings. That sort of thing. But
this woman-this WOMAN-"
(He shuddered here, placing more invective on this word than I'd thought possible.)
"This WOMAN is wearing skin tight red trousers. And her hair is this ridiculous platinum blonde color. It looked like
a wig. And if the appearance was disappointing, the performance was distressingly dull. So professional and cold. She held
the condom in place by making this little peace sign with her fingers. Like this-"
Simon illustrated her technique by flashing a peace sign in which the fingers did not point skyward, but instead pointed
horizontally, palm up.
"Admittedly, watching her and Khalid was about ten times better than actually having sex with her. She was like a corpse.
Really, rumpy pumpy with her was a notch down from a hand job...Plus, she had fat knees."
Simon sighed and tossed his cigarette over the roof. En route to the sidewalk, it dropped onto the head of a fashionable
young woman searching for a taxi, en route to the less fashionable side of Hyde Park known as Bayswater. She craned her head,
looking for the source of the cigarette and rubbed her head.
"But the worst part is," he continued, "Sebastian must have ran into her in the hallway as she was leaving. I was mortified.
I guess he buzzed the front door when I was in the bathroom and that sycophant Khalid actually let him in! I mean really,
this trollop was wearing skin tight red trousers. And I think they were pilling too. Pilling! How do you explain something
like that?" Simon rubbed his nose and sniffed. "Fortunately, Sebastian is so incredibly well-bred that he didn't mention it,
and merely commented on the lovely floral arrangement in the foyer. But really. Skin tight red trousers."
I turned to him and said emphatically,
"And they were PILLING too."
Simon rolled his eyes and I focused mine on the starless night sky to keep my head from spinning.
"So," he boomed, after a moment or two. "Shetland ponies. Well, I suppose with short legs like yours that was a blessing.
No embarrassing OVER-reaching for you, hmmm?"
Meanwhile, the girl with Dunhill-singed hair walked into her acting studio. She had chosen one far enough away from her
usual Sloane Ranger surroundings to seem more gritty and "of the people" but not far enough away to cause any inconvenience.
The point was that she wanted to be a real actress, not some silly little TV presenter or something. This studio specialized
in the Stanislavski Method, encouraging actors to truly became their roles, to immerse themselves in them. Sure it was a little
old fashioned. And poor Brando had turned into Jabba the Hut towards the end of his life, impregnating countless Tahitian
maids. But it appealed to her, the organic quality of it.
Or rather, Method Acting HAD seemed like a good idea when she'd started the class three weeks ago, but now she wasn't
so sure. Maybe last night's performance had taken things a bit too far. No, it definitely had. It was mortifying. Horrible.
And illegal, actually. And as she trudged up the stairs and into the building, she wondered if maybe Stanislavski was TOO
dated by now. Maybe she should have tried the Stella Adler technique instead.
Walking into the main room of The Studio, she spied her instructor Trevor stretched out on a ratty sofa next to the window.
He was sipping a Ribena, bouncing his foot to the John Coltrane playing on the stereo. She wanted to maintain her anger,
and let him really have it for giving her such terrible advice. For using her as some type of theatrical experiment. But all
the anger she had felt on the way here dissipated when she saw his wry smirk and messy hair. SO adorable! She just wanted
to race over and kiss him. But she controlled herself as she announced briskly, chin up, chest out;
"Trevor. I did it. I did what you told me to."
He raised an eyebrow and scanned her outfit. Such a typical bourgeois daddy's girl dressed down for the plebs. They all
chose the same stupid knitted scarf. Pilling too.
"Sarah, I'm shocked...and yet strangely intrigued. What was it like?"
She wrapped her arms around her rib cage and whined,
"It was absolutely disgusting! I wore a horrid blonde wig, tons of nasty makeup and called myself Sharon."
Trevor chuckled. "An Essex Girl eh? I thought you hated tired clichés."
"Oh fuck off!" she snapped, removing her coat and flinging herself dramatically on a mangy, ripped up loveseat. All of
the furniture in The Studio looked at though it had been fished out of the dustbin behind a Brixton council estate. It smelled
of years of ground in sweat, Walkers Prawn Cocktail Flavoured crisps, dog hair and other less definable scents. The squalid
earthiness of it all enraptured girls like Sarah, made dizzy with olfactory slumming.
"And you can wipe that silly grin off your face too," she continued, studying her nails. "You told me it would help me
get into character! You told me it would help me really FEEL the role of Muriel. It did nothing for me. I only felt filthy
afterwards. I sat in the bath for a good hour when I got home."
Trevor took a pack of Silk Cuts from his shirt pocket. "Sarah, don't you think prostitutes feel filthy once in a while?
And they don't have the luxury of going to a beautiful home to sit in a fragrant bath."
Sarah bit her cheek. "I'm never ever going to do something like that again. And wasn't it Sir Lawrence Olivier who said
to Dustin Hoffman, 'My dear boy, why don't you just act?'"
Trevor paused thoughtfully as he lit his cigarette. "Yes but, I never did like his Hamlet. So ACTOR-LY. Handled Yorick's
skull like it was a Ming vase."
Sarah glanced at the cigarette, and began rubbing her head where the Dunhill had hit her.
"You don't understand," she said. "I ran into a family friend on the way out of there. Sebastian. I've known him since
I was ten. I had to lie and tell him I was coming back from rehearsal and nipped over to see a friend."
"Sounds credible enough," said Trevor.
"No it wasn't. He was acting really odd. I think he suspected something. If anyone finds out about this..." Her voice
trailed off as she contemplated exactly what would happen if anyone found out.
Trevor took stock of her pale face. She was slightly more interesting than most of the spoiled little girls who came to
The Studio for a slice of real life. Even if she did wear the same scarf as the rest of them. She was also much better in
bed. He threw his cigarette in the Ribena bottle, held out his arms and said,
"My poor darling. Come and give us a kiss."
Wishing she could resist, Sarah hesitated for five seconds before padding over to the sofa and snuggling next to him.
Trevor kissed her soft, expensively moisturized skin as a gust of wind blew open the window above them.
"Ghosts," she murmured as she nuzzled his neck.
"Old window latches," he replied. "Can't seem to keep them shut. If only we had some more money for renovations. Just
a few thousand pounds would make a huge difference. A shame we don't have anyone who could help."
Sarah said nothing as Trevor's calloused fingers unbuttoned her blouse. She loved the feel of those calluses running over
her skin. These were hands that had worked HARD, doing REAL jobs with real, working class people. Brick laying, plumbing,
nicking bread and milk from shops...
"I love the feel of your hands on me," she cooed.
"Me too," he said while noting to himself that there was nothing very exciting underneath the blouse. Why did these posh
girls always have such small tits, he wondered.
"You know Sarah," he began as he suckled on her dainty nipples, "it really would make such a difference."
"What do you mean?" she asked, her eyes half-closed.
"The money." Trevor unzipped her trousers, and searched out her clitoris. Accustomed to invading the knickers of wealthy
girls, the search was a quick one. She squirmed as he began massaging in a circular motion. When her body began to tense up
he put his lips to her ear and whispered,
"If someone would just donate some money. I'd be ever so grateful."
A stronger gust of wind blew the window open wider. Had Sarah been sitting up on the ratty sofa and looking out the window,
instead of reclined on the ratty sofa in mid-orgasm, she might have seen Sebastian shuffling past on his way to Hyde Park.
He had arranged to meet his dealer at the Peter Pan statue. Each step he took reinforced his self-loathing. His brain replayed
the previous night, a semi-coherent inner dialogue, the kind he often had while coming down off a high and waiting for his
dealer:
In front of Simon's building again. Too stoned to
go home. At the mercy of the fat Bahamian. Buzz
flat number 14. The door to the foyer clicks open,
stagger over to the stairwell. Second flight of
stairs, there she is: Sarah, carrying a blonde wig.
She looks beautiful, wearing more make up than
usual.
Try to speak:
"Sarah! What a surprise...What...why...I
haven't seen you in...months...How is your acting
career going?"
Sarah, beautiful Sarah:
"Well, actually, I've just come from rehearsal.
Stopped by to see a friend. I'm playing a
prostitute in an independent film. What do you
think of my costume?"
Can't think properly.
Try to open mouth to tell her that a beautiful
girl with such impeccable bone structure and
obvious good breeding could NEVER be mistaken for
a prostitute. But before words come out, lose grip
on the handrail, hit head against the wall with an
embarrassing thud.
"Erm...Slippery hand rail."
Sarah, beautiful Sarah:
"Okay. Must dash. Take care Sebastian."
She turns and runs down the stairs. She is gone.
Slide into crumpled heap upon the floor, wishing
for death's clutches.
Urinate in trousers when The Grim Reaper fails to
show.
Unreliable bastard.
As Sebastian ruminated over his dismal state in the park, he realized he simply had to get things in order. Life could
not go on like this. It was an embarrassing and uncivilized existence. Now Sarah knew about his habit and would tell all her
friends, who were also his friends. He'd be dinner table conversation. The kind discussed in hushed tones. Aunts would cluck
their tongues and Uncles would remember their past indiscretions with a little too much of a gleam in their eye.
Sebastian rested his forehead in his palm and decided he was quite sure that he would NEVER EVER have tried heroin if
he'd known that it would eventually lead him to a life of sponging off of a fat Bahamian with a fake English accent who dreamt
of a purchased title. How much worse could things get? How did everything go so incredibly wrong?
A light rain began to fall, and Sebastian's dealer was nowhere in sight.
Back out on the roof of Flat 14, Simon raised his palms up to the air check for rain. Suspicions confirmed, he stood up
and nudged me in the ribs with his wing-tipped toe. I had fallen asleep. As we climbed through the window to get back into
his flat he said,
"Sebastian fell asleep almost as soon as he got here. You can still smell his Geo Trumper aftershave on one of the sofa
cushions. Unfortunately he'd also pissed himself so I had to take his clothes off for him. What a body. His chest is so wonderfully
hairless. So perfectly smooth to the touch...But I really don't know what I am going to do with him. Such a lost little lamb.
Did I ever tell you about when we went to the restaurant down the street? Sebastian opened the menu and said, 'Let's have
the artichoke balls and oyster panties.' Oyster panties! It was so droll. The menu actually read 'oyster patties' of course.
They were quite delicious."
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A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME
Just one quick glance around our cultural landscape will tell you that we are all happily wallowing in some muddy blur
between fact and fiction: pop icons masquerading as "singers", propaganda-spewing pundits posing as "journalists"; and reality
TV programming warping the basic mise en scene of "celebrity".
The folks at IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS.COM have capitalized on this trend. Trumpeting a curious slogan of "Real Girls, Imaginary
Relationships", this website offers an opportunity unlike any I've ever seen. For $45.00 dollars, any lonely stroker can have
a fake girlfriend for two months. The woman you select from the website is a real person, and they all offer varying types
of services: on-line chatting, e-mails, phone messages, "letters on cute stationary" and lace panties.
For anyone who wonders why a person would want an Imaginary Girlfriend, the website poses such questions as:
"Tired of your friends and family telling you to get a girlfriend? Want to make that certain someone a little jealous?
Need a confidence boost? Just feeling lonely sometimes?"
The whole concept struck me as so strange that I had to try it out for myself. What would a fake girlfriend say? What
would I say to a fake girlfriend? And as a further twist-what would I say to a fake girlfriend as a woman posing as a man?
Stealing my boyfriend Mike's e-mail account, and his name, I signed up for two months of a counterfeit romance.
APRIL 15th:
I click the "browse girlfriends" prompt on the website and find a wide variety of Imaginary Girlfriends: sexy goth chick,
sweet girl next door, the Texan outdoorsy type, studious librarian. I notice that the overtly sexual girls and stereotypically
attractive blondes are unavailable due to over-flowing demand.
I choose Rose because she seems interesting: she wants to be a veterinarian AND an actress. A double threat! A sitcom
in the making! I whisk my imaginary girlfriend Rose through to checkout. I soon receive formal receipt that states:
QTY 1 PRODUCT ID: Imaginary Girlfriend.
I had expected to pay $45.00 dollars, but I get Rose for the low-low discount price of $40.00. This is great. I love a
good bargain.
APRIL 18th:
Still no word from Rose. I worry. Perhaps my Imaginary Girlfriend is defective. I write the company asking when I can
expect to hear from her.
APRIL 19th:
No Rose and no word from the company. Have I been duped? Will I have to take this up with the Better Business Bureau?
Where can my Rose be? I call my mother to tell her that my imaginary girlfriend refuses to write to me. She says, "You're
becoming the kind of man I always warned you of."
APRIL 20th:
I get an e-mail with the cryptic title THIS IS ROSE:
"I am so very sorry I didn't write you until now. I just barely got back from a trip, and am very tired. I will be e-mailing
you today after I wake up from a nap."
Of all the things I thought my Imaginary Girlfriend would be: hot, saucy, fun, jaunty, spicy--sleepy was not on my list
of top five adjectives. But Rose is true to her word. A couple hours later I get another e-mail. I haven't corrected Rose's
spelling errors, since they seem to add to the over-all flavor.
She writes:
"Like we have already established, this is a pretend relationship. On the 23rd, e-mail me with a letter that states the
basic way me "met" and you basically asking me to be your girlfriend, (that will be our official start date). When the two
month time that you have payed for is over on June 23rd you either have to give me a weeks notice about the brake up that
you are wanting and the reason why you are braking up with me, so I can beg for you back, or you have to repay two days before
June 23. If I don't recieve notification that you have repayed, I will brake up with you on the 26th of June.
I need to know if there is anything specific that you want. The occational phone message, any photo shoots, if there
are going to be any online chats. During the relationship, you can casually mention them in your letters, and within the
next day or so I will include whatever you have asked for in the e-mail, or you will recieve a message from me.
Any questions?"
It appears that Rose, despite her aversion to spellcheck is quite a savvy businesswoman. It's all pretty precise. But
I do like the idea of inventing a "how we met" story. I write back and tell her she can take her choice of three meeting scenarios:
1.) At a Sci-fi/Tupperware convention
2.) When we were both starring in a Detroit, Michigan regional theatre production of "Jesus Christ Superstar". You were
Mary Magdalene, I was Jesus.
3.) Skydiving
I also tell her:
"I'd like some e-mails, a picture, (preferably in an "Old West" costume) and hand written letters about yourself. I'd
like to know what books your read when you were a kid, which actresses you admire, what perfume you wear, what music you listen
to when you are by yourself and you know no one else is listening, and how you felt the first time you ever got turned on."
I add the last question to gauge her temperature on what type of Imaginary Girlfriend she will be. I figure I will work
up to asking for the panties. I don't want to be too demanding right away. I think I make a pretty decent imaginary boyfriend,
considering I'm new at it. I'm charming, witty, and express an interest in her life.
My confidence disappears when I don't hear from Rose for a couple of days. I feel rejected, and write to her begging for
some attention. I cannot believe what a loser I am. My Imaginary Girlfriend is forcing me to grovel for her affections.
APRIL 25th:
"Mike,
It is hard to believe that it has been so long since we last saw eachother. The memories of you being Jesus, heh. I'm
so glad that we are finally together. Ever since I first laid eyes on you, I knew that I cared for you, and I hoped that
we would finally be together.
For me to be this far away from you is hard, but I still have the memories of when we were in the play together, and hopefully
soon, I'll have enough money to come out and see you.
My life right now is filled with many things. I'm working on a Musical Review right now, which is absolutely fun. I
barely get any time to myself anymore, but when I do I just like to sit back and listen to music. I mainly listen to alternitive,
but I like to go to sleep to the sounds of Evanescence.
I'll be sending some letters off soon that I wrote for you today."
Truthfully, I am disappointed in Rose. Although I have provided an unusual "how we met" set up, it seems that Rose still
managed to fit it into a readymade template. I suppose that makes for less work. I also notice she brings up sleep again.
My girl sure likes to sleep.
I am also sort of concerned about the Evanescence reference. I wonder if this implies that she is devout Christian, and
thus would not be amenable to panty deliveries. Worse, she doesn't answer most of my questions.
Moreover, I am a little confused by the blending of real life details and fantasy. This makes me somewhat concerned about
the prospect of Rose visiting. I have not scrubbed the toilet in two weeks and my sofa is a little worn. The sexual subterfuge
is all too much for me. I write back asking:
"Please send me a picture soon. I would like to put it on my kitchen wall, so I can look at you while I drink my morning
coffee and eat my Honey Bunches of Oats cereal."
MAY 2nd:
Haven't heard from Rose. I am alarmed and strangely lonely. I write:
"Rose,
Are you upset with me? I feel as though you are not into our relationship. I hope you really have sent the letters you
promised, because I need more communication from you."
MAY 3rd
"Mike,
No! I still love and miss you dearly. My computer is going on the fritz. It only allows me to check my e-mail when it
feels like it. I did send the letters off. I miss you so much, I really do. I feel like I love you too. I hope that you
aren't mad. My computer just seems to hate me."
When my boyfriend, the real-life Mike reads this e-mail he announces, "Well, it's official. She loves us." I think he
is enjoying the cyber romance by proxy. It's disturbing. We are engaged in some type of weird meta-threesome.
MAY 4th:
Rose e-mails pictures. In one, she is dressed in a princess costume. I print them out and put them next to the wobbling
hula girl on my desk. Rose seems more tangible now.
MAY 6th:
"Rose,
You are so beautiful. Your skin is like porcelain, and your hair is so shiny and thick. I especially love the picture
of you in costume. You deserve a golden throne in a castle, because you are a queen."
It amazes me how we women are so susceptible to compliments on our appearance, because for the first time in our relationship,
Rose e-mails back immediately:
"Oh Mike, you are so sweet! Thank you so much. I think of you every day when I wake up. I hope you recieve my letters
soon. I will probably be sending more off tomorrow."
Now, the main stickling point in this relationship is that I have yet to "recieve" one letter, and I am a little upset.
When will I get these letters? I know the policy is that she sends the letters to the company, and they repackage them and
send them to me, but it seems that they are taking a mighty long time to get here.
MAY 6th
Another e-mail from Rose:
"Mike,
I miss you so much. Tell me more about youself!"
MAY 7th
"Rose,
I'm flattered you that want to hear about me. I believe that all of our experiences, good and bad, push us down whatever
path we are on."
Tired of trying to be original with her and getting nothing in return, I dribble out some platitudes about strength of
character. Then, out of politeness I ask her questions like:
"What is your idea of a perfect day?"
MAY 10th
"Mike,
Ofcourse I want to hear about you. You are my boyfriend! My idea of a perfect day is no pain, no stress, just either
sleeping or watching the stars."
Again with the sleeping. My narcoleptic Imaginary Girlfriend is getting on my nerves.
MAY 13th
Still no letters. What is going on here? I e-mail:
"Rose,
I realize you do not send them directly to me, but it has been over two weeks since you claimed to have sent them out,
and they have not appeared."
MAY 19th:
"Mike,
I finally found out what happened to the letters, and you should get them in a couple of days. What has been going on.
I miss you very much, and am interested in what you are doing. I hope to hear from you soon."
I am starting to fear that I am getting the run around and will never receive my letters. Sleeping Beauty is playing me
for a fool. I decide it's time to "brake up" with Rose, mostly because if I'm not going to get any letters on cute, sweetly
scented stationary, then I want to see how all the begging is done. I want to be worshiped. Besides, I have the relationship
on a strict timeline and notice that in my Day Runner I have already written that it is Break Up With Rose Day.
MAY 19th
"Rose,
I feel I must end our relationship. I am so lonely, and yet I feel that I have very little communication with you. Perhaps
I need to find another "girlfriend". Each day I have gone to my mailbox with high expectations for a letter from you, only
to find bills, an occasional Cat Fancy magazine from the previous tenant and assorted Hickory Farms brochures. This is most
depressing. I had hoped to find a connection, but alas, you don't seem to care for me. I can't take the rejection anymore."
MAY 20th:
"Mike,
Why? Why are you braking up with me? I miss you so much, and I care about you. I had hoped we would have a future together.
Why do you e-mail me to say the relationship is over when I say it will only be acouple of days before the letters get to
you? Why do you do this to me? I have cried for hours. If you feel this relationship is over, I am requesting all mail that
I have sent to you to not be shipped out. I'm sorry, but you will not recieve them if this relationship ends. Take me back.
I'm yours."
Okay, so this actually riles me up. She claimed to have sent these letters weeks ago. How could she stop shipment on them
now? And shouldn't she be sending more letters not less to convince me of her love? I experience the kind of irritation I
get after purchasing do-it-yourself furniture in a box and getting home to find that four vital screws are missing. Those
are my letters! I paid for them. I am pissed and also curious about how Rose will react to criticism of her job performance.
I fire back with:
"First of all, I have caught you in a lie, and I cannot stand lies. You claim to have sent these letters over three weeks
ago. So how would it be possible to not have them shipped out? That's idiotic. You either sent them or you didn't. Second
of all, those letters are mine. I have paid for them. Should I not receive them, I will contact company and tell them that
you have not been doing your job properly, which, quite frankly you haven't. You have claimed to be too busy, too tired, or
that your "computer hates you." I have given you the benefit of the doubt, but if you were too busy for this job, you really
should have allowed someone else to do it."
It is a pretty nasty letter, and it amazes me that I have just accused my Imaginary Girlfriend of lying, but "braking
up is hard to do". I figure I am in the driver's seat, being the paying customer and all. But a couple hours later I am proven
wrong when she writes back:
"Mike,
Although I did not tell you of this, from the beginning I have felt uncomforitable working with you. You have seemed
to be rude, you have asked personal questions that I did not want to answer, and have seemed to try to be manipulative. I
have not felt comforitable giving you any of my services at all from the start, but I have sent you pictures of me, and e-mailed
on a regular basis. I feel that I was doing a good job. The letters must have been some mix-up, and I did not lie about
them either.
Because of these feelings, I must tell you that the agreement that I signed with the company states that if I feel uncomforitable
with the customers I have the right to stop the relationship. It should have stated that in your terms and conditions.
Also, I have e-mailed the company and they agree with me. Since I feel uncomforitable, I have no obligation to finish
this relationship with you, nor do I have an obligation to give you your money back or the letters.
I apologize that things had to work out this way, but if you feel that this is unjust, you can e-mail the company. If
you do want to try to continue this relationship, I do not mind giving it a second chance. Although, you must understand
that we would be under the agreement that you can not threaten me. Second you can not try to make me feel as if I'm stupid
or "idiotic". And thirdly, if I feel as if you are trying to be manipulative, hurtful, or rude in any way, (including asking
personal questions), the relationship will be over."
I re-read the e-mail a couple of times. The imaginary boyfriend in me is feeling scorned. Here I was, thinking I was being
charming and witty, and THE WHOLE TIME I made her "uncomforitable"!
But the woman in me is profoundly proud of Rose. It's so great that she has COMPLETE CONTROL over this relationship. She
has turned this situation around and remained in power. Rose doesn't take any crap. A modern day Norma Rae for imaginary girlfriends
everywhere. I am feeling downright sisterly towards Rose at this point, so I send off a final e-mail entitled THE TRUTH:
"Rose,
It was never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable. The questions I asked were only a way of trying to express interest
in your life. If that upset you, then I apologize. At any rate:
I just wanted to tell you the truth. I did this as an experiment for a publication. The reason I kept hounding you for
the letters is because I wanted them as research for my piece. I wanted to know if they were actually written on "pretty stationary
sprayed with perfume" as the website claims. I am under a deadline, so you can understand now why I was so intent on getting
them. Best of luck with school and your acting career."
I'm not sure if I will hear back from Rose, but a couple hours later I get a response:
"Hahaha, that is quite interesting to find out. Well, each girl does things diffrently. My letters are written on regular
old paper. Possibly they smell good, possibly they don't, but they do have dried rose petals in them. I do apologize for
the mix-up, but sine we are telling the truth, I figured that I'll just say this. My real identity I would like to keep to
myself, but my name is not Rose. I pretend to be Rose for those who need someone to talk to, (although you probably know that
from the website).
Thank you for telling me the whole sceme."
Dried Rose petals! Ah, would a Rose by any other name smell as sweet? Possibly, but it wouldn't be as thematically apropos.
UPDATE: The last time I checked on this site, it had been converted to a "by referral only" service. Guess that's one
way to keep creeps like me at bay.
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MAN OF THE HOUR
Becoming a "Certified Exotic Stripper" is not something I knew could be achieved in one hour. Drugstores develop holiday
photos and Dr. Phil lectures a nation of housewives in that time frame, but I assumed the art of stripping required a more
leisurely pace. At the very least, I figured it took weeks of falling off that smudged pole, while a hard assed task master
would shout encouraging go-get 'ems like:
"Let's go let's go! Lock n' Load ladies! When you fall off that pole, you need to get right back on."
I also thought I'd need thinner thighs and a sense of rhythm, but the fact is I'm heading off to Stripping 101. My friend
Denise and I are making our way west towards The Penthouse Executive Club building, which looks like it could have been a
set on "Miami Vice". The neo deco architecture and purple glow belong on Ocean Drive, not 45th and 11th Avenue.
We are dressed in our regular clothes, and did not see fit to wear anything lacy, racy or gold lame. We're not sure what
to expect, only that it's billed as "Stripping For Your Man" which has a solid country western twang to it.
Walking in the door, we find that we are the first students there. The club manager, dressed in a sharkskin suit and alligator
skin shoes is laying down the law over the phone. His attire and demeanor are just so perfect for his job that it is somewhat
reassuring. I catch the tail end of his conversation:
"I ain't dealin' with that shit now baby...Look, that's your fuckin' problem."
He hangs up and gives us a "women, whaddya gonna do?" shrug. I look up and notice three buttons on the wall. The smallest
one says "trouble" The medium one says "fire" and the largest one is unlabeled. It must be for problems of apocalyptic proportions.
Meanwhile, the Penthouse Club employees are shuffling in. Bartenders, coat checks, strippers. They look very much like
any other New York commuters, carrying their work shoes in reused Duane Reade shopping bags.
In a few minutes, our fellow students amble in. The three of them are from Mexico, and I'm pleased that the Penthouse
Executive Club can offer this type of cultural exchange with our neighbors to the south. Just then the double doors burst
open and our instructor makes a bold entrance. She is dressed in a light blue push up bra, eight inch heels, white fish net
thigh highs, a white satin mini-robe and some lacy panties. A bottle blonde, her roots are peeking through. She waves, gives
us a big grin and says,
"Hi y'all! Anybody got any lingerie they want to put on?"
We all shake our heads shyly, shamed by her exuberant sexuality. She is the real thing. Her skin glistens. Her lingerie
gleams. When she moves her perfume wafts up my nostrils. With her light colored attire and white blonde hair, she is soft
and delectable, like a marshmallow.
She beckons us, and we follow her through a hallway and up some stairs. One wall is covered with pictures of boobs, butts
and my personal porn favorite: the half-open shiny, greasy mouth with an index finger in it. I've never understood why it's
sexy to look as though you've just polished off a bucket of KFC.
Inside the Red Room where our instruction will take place, there are red velvet sofas, red fabric on the walls, and red
carpet. It looks like something out of 101 Arabian Nights, except for the big flat screen TV that is hanging by the door.
It is on mute, but still broadcasting the Knicks. Considering this is one of the private rooms where clients pay hundreds
of dollars an hour, it is strangely disheartening to realize that strippers still need back up.
I sit down on a velvet sofa, somewhat concerned about the dried cum factor. I suddenly remember visiting a porn shop in
Atlanta where there were back rooms for peep shows. There was a little man who sat on a stool reading a history textbook.
After the person was done viewing the peep show, the man would sigh, hop off the stool, walk in the with a mop, clean up whatever
was left behind, and go back to his text book.
Apparently, he was putting himself through school by being a cum mopper-upper. It all made me exceedingly grateful for
my Citibank student loan.
When we are all seated, sipping vodka with a variety of mixers, our instructor announces that her name is DeAngela. Sensing
mistrust in the room, she insists that this is her real name, providing the fact that she hails from Alabama as proof. She
begins the class by explaining,
"Now I see this class as kind of like a slumber party. Just all of us hanging out together. So, there's no reason to be
shy. 'Cause if you can't do this in front of a buncha women, you'll never be able to do it in front of your man."
This seems reasonable enough to all of us. And when she thinks we're settled in, and had a vodka buzz she imparts the
very first lesson, a bargain hunter's nugget that seems ripped from the pages of "Help From Heloise"
"Okay. First thing is, there's no reason to spend a ton-a-money on lingerie. Men don't know the difference. They don't
know La Perla from K-Mart. They're visual, but all they see is a bra and panties. They're not noticing if you're in silk or
rayon. Plus, it's just gonna come off in five minutes anyway."
With a sweeping motion, she points out what she's wearing. "Now, I usually dress up more than this, but everything I own
was dirty."
I don't know why, but this makes me cringe. I picture a tiny, rundown studio apartment littered with piles of sweaty,
greasy, filmy, cheap lingerie. I wonder if she does the sort and sniff, whether she sends her laundry out, or pushes her work
lingerie down to the laundry room in one of those old lady carts.
"The most important part about your outfit is the heels. Now, why do you think I wear these eight-inch heels?"
There is no response. We are not an intuitive bunch. She holds the stacked heel lavender shoe up in the air like a flight
attendant doing the flotation device demonstration.
"I wear these so I can maintain eye contact with the man. That's THE most important thing. Eye contact. That's how you
keep the power. Also, know that wherever your hands go, his eyes will follow. That's your other way to keep control."
She pauses, puts her shoe back on and asks,
"Who wants to be the man?"
In what will be the theme of the evening, I volunteer.
"You gotta spread your legs apart," she says, yanking my thighs open. She bends over, keeping her eyes on me. "Now, ladies,
watch, I start with my hands on my ankles, then slowly slide them up. Wherever my hands go, his eyes will go."
This is all true. We all watch her French manicured fingers traveling the length of her long legs, then up her torso.
When she reaches her bra and unhooks it, her boobs spring out and she grabs them. She's not shy. Now she's kneading and yanking
and slapping them like pizza dough. Then she twists and pulls on her nipples in the same violent way I have to twist the broken
dishwasher knob at my mom's house. It's unbelievable, as though her tits weren't even part of her own body. I can't understand
why this doesn't hurt her. I suspect she sees us all thinking the same thing, because she admits,
"Now, y'all probably can't do this with your boobs 'cause mine are silicone. I paid good money for these babies."
One of the Mexican girls translates this information into Spanish for her friends. The relief we all feel knowing that
we won't be expected to smack ourselves around like that to become certified crosses both cultural and linguistic boundaries.
In her final act of mammary gymnastics, she shows us the "frame" pose, where she manages to box her boobs in a square
with her arms like they're some hapless celebrity on "Hollywood Squares".
After we all try this, she launches into the next lesson. I am still the man. This means she now bends over, with her
ass in my face. She tells us,
"Now don't worry if your butt is fat or your thighs are flabby, because he's gonna be looking here-" She pats between
her legs. "That's where his eyes are gonna be drawn."
Naturally, our eyes are drawn in that direction too. Satisfied we understand, she moves on to a "Goofus and Gallant" brand
of instruction and announces,
"Now I'm gonna show you what's NOT sexy." She squats as though she were taking a dump on a hiking trip. "Now see, that's
just NOT sexy." Then she stands up and takes the tie off of her white robe and straddles it between her legs, pulling it back
and forth between her butt cheeks. "And THIS is definitely NOT sexy.
This all seems pretty subjective, but she's treating this like information like it's Stripper's Pythagorean Theorem.
DeAngela deals with the issue of cellulite in the same matter of fact way. She pulls out a bottle of cream and says,
"Now, I know we're all worried about the pesky problem of cellulite. So, for starters, never ever strip under BLUE lights.
Red and yellow are okay, but blue lights will really make your cellulite show. And this cream will help give your skin an
even, all over smoothness, and hide some of that cellulite.
Again, all of this is enthusiastically translated into Spanish. The girl doing the translating could really be a fantastic
asset to the U.N. and the other two would be well-served by those plastic ear phones that the delegates use. When the translation
comes to a close, she utters her first words of English in a deep husky voice,
"Oh, we really need that cream."
DeAngela smiles patiently. "Now, its also a good thing to go to the gym before you strip, get a massage, pedicure, bikini
wax-"
I notice that "bikini wax" needs no translation. Pubic Esperanto. DeAngela glances at me and orders,
"Okay, I need my man again."
She motions to a sparkly silver vinyl chair. It is not enough for me to sit on the velvet sofa anymore. For this lesson,
there is a specific MAN CHAIR. I now see how the cum problem is handled. The men must all sit in this chair, which can be
easily hosed down.
Now dressed only in panties and fishnets, DeAngela puts her eight inch heeled foot on the side of the chair. She starts
writhing her impressive, industrial strength breasts in my face, arching her back and reaching down to grab my ankles. I'm
getting a little turned on. She's just so delicious. I realize I kind of like being the man. I wonder if that's because it
means I get to relinquish any pretense of feminine sexuality. After all, I'm often surprised when anyone buys my act at all.
I was a late bloomer in the sexuality department. Throughout high school, I suspected I must have possessed some type
of sex appeal but that I just couldn't access it. It was dormant, unused, like my appendix. But I never really thought about
it much until senior year when some sophomore girl wrote my name, along with four others on the wall of the handicapped stall
of the girls bathroom. The list was written under the under the bold statement:
I WANT TO FUCK ALL THESE GIRLS:
One of my friends on the list wanted to beat her up. She was tough, and wore copious amounts of leather. She probably
could have. But I managed to talk her out of it. Personally I thought it was great to see, right there in bold, Bubbalicious
teenage handwriting that someone, ANYONE wanted to fuck me. Me. Saara the dork. Saara who never had a date, never went to
prom, who spent too much time scribbling in journals and no time getting felt up in the back of a used Chevy.
All of this is racing through my head as DeAngela decides to sit on my lap. Not expecting it, I am winded. Fearing that
she is squishing me, she doesn't maintain this position very long. Since I am 5'2 and she is about 5'10, it is a real possibility.
Her perfume is now permanently lodged in my nostrils.
"Alright y'all," she announces. "Now we're gonna try some stuff together. First thing I'm gonna show you is the butt shake.
It's all in the ankles." She grabs a velvet wall and starts shaking her ankles back and forth. "Now, just let your ass hang.
Let everything jiggle."
It is an amazing sight. A butt earthquake. We all grab a wall and attempt it with varying success. I am hopeless. She
compliments the girls from Mexico and Denise. She looks at me with a mixture of pity and disgust, the way you would at a homely
8-year-old who picks their boogers and eats them and says,
"Don't worry, hon. You'll get it if you keep trying."
I'd like to believe her, but I doubt it's going to happen for me. I feel oddly asexual. I am the Peppermint Patty of this
class.
We pair off now, with one person playing the man again. Naturally, this is me. I am paired up with Denise, who is a very
successful, ambitious type-A personality. So she starts using all the tips with great determination: she boob frames, she
butt quakes, she keeps eye contact. She does the hands on thighs, the bend over. I can see she's ticking off all the skills.
She does everything with precision. She's approaching this as she approaches everything in life: like a business proposition.
I am getting nervous watching her professional performance. I worry about having to follow up her perfection with my bush
league boob frame. How is it that I cannot do any of it? I work up a bit of a sweat, worrying that I have no sex appeal whatsoever.
Denise gets down to her bra, and says definitively,
"Okay, that's it."
Just as I am standing up to confront my inevitable humiliation, DeAngela informs us that the hour is up, and class is
over. So I won't have to strip for Denise. A couple of the girls put their shirts back on, and there is a knock at the door.
It is a guy with our Penthouse Executive Club Certificates. I look at mine, which states that I am a Certified Exotic Stripper.
They've spelled my name wrong. But since I didn't master any techniques, who am I to complain? I wonder about other certified
professionals: accountants, plumbers. What if some of these people in the Yellow Pages are certified in the same half-assed
way I am?
For whatever reason, I'm still not ready to leave this cozy strip club environment. So downstairs I belly up to the bar
with my newfound manly swagger and order drinks. We sit down and I say,
"That was great. I loved it."
"What are talking about?" asks Denise. "You didn't do anything."
"That's because I was the man!" I sputter, sounding like Rosanne Barr circa 1989.
Embarrassed, I scurry off to the bathroom where I find the Mexican alumni. I smile, and say,
"I never did get that butt-shaking thing." I mime it so they know what I'm saying. They all nod. This prompts all of us
to grab a wall and try our newly minted moves. Since the other three all got walls, I am stuck with the door to the bathroom
stall.
I furiously wobble my ankles, clutching at the door. This is my last chance to show myself and three Mexican girls whose
names I will soon forget that I am indeed capable of being flagrantly sexy. I flail and shake, yet again seeking sexual salvation
from a bathroom stall.
But it's no use. I am hopeless. I turn around to face the other graduates and throw my hands up in the "women--whaddya
gonna do?" shrug. I sigh, go inside the stall and use the toilet, pissing all over the seat.
It appears I'm still the man of the hour.
THE THIRD AND A HALF GREAT AWAKENING
Please allow me to slip into my white suit and affect a mellifluous
Virginian accent because it’s been over thirty years since Tom Wolfe
penned the “The Me Decade and the Third Great Awakening” and here we
are, steeped in the type of navel gazing that not even the savviest
1970s social scientist could have imagined.
Sure Wolfe noted that, “Whatever the Third Great Awakening amounts
to…will have to do with this unprecedented post-World War II American
luxury: the luxury enjoyed by so many millions of middling folk, of
dwelling upon the self.”
But in those pre-blogger, pre-Facebook, pre-Twitter, pre-YouTube days
he couldn’t have seen just how far we’d take this. He couldn’t have known just how crucial it would become
to not only dwell upon the
self, but to express our minutiae to the great, teeming masses.
Unlike the Me Decade, it’s not enough to bare your soul to your yogi
or guru, gather in a roomful of likeminded primal screamers or mumble
Woody Allen style to your girlfriend. It has to reach millions now.
Via social networking sites, cable air waves, Podcasts and
mass-produced T-shirts. So that everyone; nameless, faceless people
will know who has daddy issues, dislikes lime Jell-O, or is overly
attached to their goldfish.
This is no intimate confessional over escargot anymore.
Our obsession with other people’s unimportant details is rivaled only
by our need to expose our own unimportant details. We are not
interested in how we fit into our communities. We want our communities
to take interest in us.
It’s not enough to whisper around the water cooler what a cruel
taskmaster your boss is anymore. It has to be blogged, Twittered and
added as your Facebook status update. Forget about that heart-shaped
lock on your big sister’s pink journal; we actually want our diaries
read now. We demand it.
Maybe this is why many people aren’t more outraged about our civil
rights being squashed “for security purposes”. We expect to be filmed
while taking out our last twenty at the ATM or picking out honeydew
melons at the grocery store. We expect cookies to track which sites we
visit on the Internet. Life is lived to be recorded, saved, analyzed
and viewed by all of your Facebook friends and Twitter followers and
beyond. Otherwise, how can you prove it happened?
It isn’t the event that matters, it’s the evidence.
In defining the Me Decade, Tom Wolfe opined that years of excess
leisure time produced excess introspection. Most people didn’t want to
sacrifice their own wants and needs, and distanced themselves from the
issues of posterity that bogged down their parents. Worn down by fears
of war and economic problems, people wanted to seize the moment on
their own terms.
These days fear-mongering is a multi-media sport, and there are plenty
of fears to chose from: terrorism, school shootings and people in
sprawling, forest-encroaching exurbs finding bears taking a dip in
their swimming pools. Their swimming pools that they cannot afford
anymore. Pick a channel, and you’ll find we are awash in fear. But in
the midst of all these fears, what we seem to fear most isn’t death,
but death in obscurity.
Death in obscurity is a fate worse than death.
Thirty years ago Tom Wolfe wrote about a woman sharing the pain of her
hemorrhoids with 249 other people during an EST session at the
Ambassador Hotel. What would he say he if knew that all these years
later those the 250 people writhing on the floor of that hotel would
become 250,000,000 people, all clicking on the hemorrhoid-removal
YouTube link, Twittering about hemorrhoids, and buying celebrity
hemorrhoids off of E-bay?
He might call this the Exhibitionist Decade.
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