Skulls, jacks, Tenebaums, and high kicks

We both pack gin and bubbles. He is Richie Tenebaum, post cutting-scene, and I am a Thai boxer. Greeting us in a cab is a graying Miss Liza Minnelli and a Just Dance era Gaga.

Inside is Geri Ginger Spice in Union Jack and Zombie boy, the re-viral living meme and pet of Nicolas Formichetti. Introductions and gossip are followed by four-to-a-mirror primping in the bathroom. The party ends at 11:30 as instructed. We side step to a gay bar.

To Pitbull, where a hairy, shirtless chest of tattoos is the common costume. Give high kicks on the back smoking patio, threaten most with murder. Then slip off a cold street into a cab, the pale shins under a lengthy coat the only sign of a boxer.

2009 was the best costume ever. (Clothes: canvas. Us: art)

Go ahead, beat me this year. I'll even give you 10 tips. That and some other new stuff up on Canada.com, where I'm currently hanging out online. (Update: GlobalTV and The Province? Hi, friends.)

When the world tour is over, the band comes back to make another record.

Will reconstruct the past soon. Hiding out now. At home.

I like you best when I have you all to myself

Curlers, ties, and Motown

It ended face down on stained sheets, as it sometimes does. But before that there was a stage, a bar, a rain of Motown hits. And on the curb across the street, five undergrads tugged on cigarettes.

Everyone kept asking what my major was. The story was this: I was not in school, not employed, did not live there, nor anywhere else, really had no plans. The conversation turned to other points.

And so I found my friends, who asked no questions, just slurred their words and didn’t mind response. Out the cab window, all I could muster up was: Remember when we were those kids?

Trips and tunnels

Months of snakes and ladders led to this perfect rest. Too much television and piping hot tea, autumn’s first cold weather top the window sill. Trips to the grocer to purchase foods she’d never eat.

Walks across the Meadows and quiet reading at coffee shops she frequents; life inside her shoes. Big back cabs are painted with Marc Jacobs flowers, they sit stagnant outside of hotels made of weathered brick.

The sun peaks out only once, really, behind some picture tree. Her flatmates wonder what her friends are doing, flying cross the world to hide underneath a blanket, such sleepish slugs.

To them some shrugs and this: those afternoons are the best we’ll ever have.

Really, really comfortable.

Red wine afternoons in Edinburgh.

You remind me of home

The bus pulls in too early in the morning. It's still dark when we cross the bridge out of the old town. Further wheels turn towards the outskirts of Edinburgh. It drops us off at a new resting place, and so begins many months of inner rest, recovery.

So we download an entire season of some TV show neither of us much likes and begin the alternating napping schedule. Many teas and lazy afternoons ahead.

What we call vacation.

A kid-filled Sunday afternoon at the Tate Modern.

A lovely afternoon at the Camden Markets

My week with Lady Diana.

London, autumn, twenty-eleven.

Lunch with Charlie Saatchi

There are no ropes at the Saatchi gallery in Chelsea. Guests can lean in close enough to drop breath on the artworks. There are no walls full of boring portraits. At the Saatchi gallery it's all the young guns without any of the clutter.

Say what you will about the man. That he's a sneaky bastard with greedy fingerprints on a generation of British artists. Fingerprints all over talentless hacks who should never have won Turners.

But damn can the man place an artwork in a building.