Sun, Nov 22

– Attended Walker’s excellent Friendsgiving party at his apartment on Graham Ave and met a lot of extremely cool people. There were 20 or so of us and everyone seemed to be an artist or writer or actor or musician. I hung out with the drummer from Rhye, whose song “The Fall” I was briefly obsessed with a couple years ago. An actor named Danielle told me about brokering deals for studio space for peanuts from an old woman in a rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side, who asked her to fish a key out of a drawer lined with thousands of dollars in small bills. A girl named Liz who asked to be called Mama told me about the New Years trip to San Francisco she takes every year, renting a house with a bunch of friends and candy-flipping acid and molly for a week straight, ransacking thrift stores for fur coats and going to all-night Burning Man affiliated concerts that spill into coke-fueled all-day street fests, everybody’s bodies failing them in the aftermath of the trip but committed to doing it again next month.

Someone had brought glow-in-the-dark temporary tattoos and I put a tiger on my cheek. I had a long conversation about competitive eating with a Swede named Isaac, asked him about this thing I read once that claimed every night at midnight in Stockholm the whole city strips down and goes skinny-dipping in the sea. He said that wasn’t quite right, but that definitely happens on this big Mid-Summer festival they have every year, and when it’s warm out, 80% of the nights you go out in Stockholm, swimming is involved.

A girl named Nina had brought a bag of Spilanthes, the flower of an herb that turns your entire mouth numb and makes the roof of your mouth fizz for a few minutes if you chew it up. We all took them at once. It was fun. The food kept coming, all vegetarian, all good. A girl walked around spraying whipped cream from a can into people’s mouths. Spliffs were rolled and burned and rolled again. There was mulled wine and rumchata and hot apple cider with bourbon. We listened to weird records, a joke country record that someone had bought for Walker with a white guy in traditional Japanese garb on the cover, then Return of the Mack like 10 times, then Michael Jackson, then made plans to go to No Lights No Lycra, a blackout dance party in the basement of a church in Greenpoint on Tuesday. I wanted to stay forever but couldn’t so I walked home around 11, talked to Dan on the phone, took a Melatonin that didn’t take so laid there indefinitely.


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