February 02, 2004
the week that very nearly was
Activities inspired by the Times Sunday Styles Section, or, 'Adventures in Home Journalism':
Two-twenty’s assignment for last week: retreat to our fabulous penthouse pied-a-terre and determine how long one can maintain our Hunter S. Thompson-meets-Tony Montana lifestyle without leaving the house.
Step1: call Slippy, our dealer. Slippy has some Afghani hash for $500 a brick. Briefly consider whether or not our actions are contributing to international terrorism or weapons of mass destruction-related program activities. Buy two. Get half ounce of White Widow for good measure.
Ask Slippy if he has anything more invigorating. He says no, but mentions that Britney was on the left coast this week and didn’t buy her usual supply of ‘Ludes from him. We’ll take ‘em. And the Oxycontin too. All of it.
Dial up sherry-lehman on the old tele-interweb, order three cases of Veuve and a case of ’00 Lafitte. Bribe a friend to deliver a case of Ketel One and two quarter pounders with cheese. After performing the promised sexual favors (Alex lost that coin toss), ask friend for phone number of their connection in hopes of finally scoring some blow. Repeat sexual favor (really not your lucky day, is it Alex?). Get number.
Call friend’s connection, a gentleman going by the sobriquet Benihana. Benny Hana? Neither here nor there. He threatens to kill friend for giving out number. Massaging his jaw, Alex encourages Benny to follow through with threat. A deal is struck. Decide to lay in a full kilo -- in case of emergency.
Atlas rolls two empty bottles of Ketel One across foyer floor, trying to lap up the residue. None of us can remember how the bottles got there. Begin to suspect that the dog is somehow holding out on us. Our ratios are off… the coke hasn’t even arrived yet… throwing caution to the wind we decide to power through with another couple of Quaaludes and a hit from our Hello Kitty bong. Wake up when doorman calls to announce Benny’s arrival. Doorman sounds nervous, suspicious. We spend next ten minutes trying to decide if we are being paranoid, then forget how conversation started.
Entertain selves by laying out two twenty-foot long lines in the hallway. Joanna’s obsessive-compulsive need for them to look “artistic” is met with only mild amusement. Days pass. Can’t find the dog anywhere.
Call up Peter Landesman to see if we can get us one of those sex slaves. He is not amused. We refer him to our lawyer, realize we accidentally gave him Benny’s number, figure that one will probably take care of itself.
Pay-per-view Gigli. Experience first awkward moment of silence in fourteen years of friendship after agreeing that the movie “wasn’t all that bad”… and meaning it. Blame it on the Oxy, and the fact that Joanna muttered the words "in bed" after every other line of dialogue.
Find a small, brown-skinned delivery man unconscious in the bathroom. We wake him and he screams “Diablo!” as he runs outside and throws himself from the terrace. Await cops' arrival. Several hours (days?) later realize it was probably all a hallucination. Hope? No, realize. Yes.
Run out of Veuve. Fight over whether or not to order in hookers, settle on a clown, a burlesque stripper and a caricaturist instead. Find dog under the bed, passed out amongst shredded tinfoil and the remains of one of the hashish bricks.
Come to on Sunday evening just as Justin is molesting a scary witch-woman on national television. Alex is hugging a duraflame log and wearing a clown wig. Stripped to her bra and panties, Joanna is coated in a film of white pancake makeup and clutching a note from Ash that reads, “Too scary here. Gone back to Baghdad.” What clothes the stripper still has on are stained blood red -- she lies in a mushy pool of Lafitte and discarded caricatures of friends and C-list celebrities who may or may not have stopped by. Oddly, a single image plays itself over and over again in two-twenty’s head as we battle to make sense of our new reality: a full color image of Joyce Wadler’s naked back being massaged by hot black co… er… rock.
image from nytimes.com
Sunday Styles | NY Times
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