North Nailrolina.
Look at this shit. This is Buffalo, NY's slap in the face vis-a-vis a real fucked up haircut. Every time I close my eyes i think it'll grow back faster. With just one appointment at Garren salon in NYC they'll get me back to pretty just for you. I was so pissed at the hairdresser i couldn't even feel it. All I want is to look like Max; to cut and paste his coat onto my head i think would do. Took a hot shower after the hair war and read bits of Bolano's lastest--Monsieur Pain. Have you seen? A glimpse into paris streets early 20th when we were there, when Vallejo keeled over on a filthy hospital bed and we were busy getting buns and coffees in saint-germain at Cafe Flor hopping and skipping penniless out of the train station. A time before the bustle and isolation of iPods, post phenomenology of surrealist film shock. I have a rabbit in this apartment dying to get out, a fearful and guiltless creature that can only hop along to my happy- anxious outbursts. Thank you god, the sun is out. Bells are chiming, bells that summons me to europe in the company of electric love. Back to Monsieur Pain--Bolano's self portrait of himself in the guise of a lazy romantic doctor without a grip on his own fate, without a grip on his daily comings and goings. Endless swirls of hospital corridors, awkward encounters that make him stare at his shoes, drunk phone calls on a payphone from a bar with a man seated at a table playing solitaire, being watched by two trenchcoat men in a restaurant, a two-thousand franc bribe to keep a mouth shut, etc. The classic NailheartsClip situation, i guess you could say. And guess what. I am ready to pack these bags again for a two day hair stroke by the genius of Garren & Co on 5th Ave in the that great big city where you'll find me in the upper east looking ready to give up and move to some european spa with Marina. Only a few more months in this town and lord knows what--as ever.
heart
C[ ]p
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