Saturday, November 20, 2004

Our little corner of the world.

Miss Gibson and CK are currently, in all likelihood, at the airport, and I'm at Larry's - where I was supposed to do laundry but instead headed directly over after sorta seeing off the travelers. (I saw them as they departed in our mutual friend Crystal's car for Hartsfield-Jackson.)

I wore a tweed jacket to go see them, and CK, following my lead, put on a jacket. Then, Crystal's boyfriend Teague put on his tweed jacket, and we all looked like variations on a theme. It was quite nice.

Our time together was spent having pizza at Slice, exchanging gifts and seeing an M.C. Escher exhibit at a local gallery.

Crystal and I spoke of "Buffy." I spoke to Teague about his parents' upcoming visit. CK and I spoke of food, Escher, the plot of "Gone With the Wind" and of impossible-to-open Walmart security cases on compact discs. CK told me that I need to come back to England.

I spoke to Miss Gibson of how I was so genuinely happy to see her that I almost cried at one point. And we spoke about the blog.

At one point during lunch, I mentioned the odd thing I found out yesterday.

A porn film star named Johnny Rahm, a nice-enough guy who I once ate a strawberry off of while he was dancing naked at my friend Larry's Pride Party - and who later helped my friend Lupo up off Larry's bathroom floor when he was a bit worse off, died this month. He hung himself at the Atlanta Botanical Gardens.

"Wow, that's an ironic way to go," Crystal said during lunch.

"Yeah," I said. "The porn star's hung."

Crystal's cool. We segued from the topic of porn suicide to the Chihuly Exhibit at the Botanical Gardens, and neither one of us has seen it yet. I think it's there until Christmas. I've heard it's phenomenal.

Miss Gibson was a vision in black, wearing a long string of faux pearls that looked just fantastic.

The Robbie Williams CD she brought me had a better, sexier photo of Robbie than the one I'd seen on Amazon.

As a means of repayment to her - and because I won't see her for the holidays, I got her a copy of the National Book Award winner for fiction, THE NEWS FROM PARAGUAY by Lily Tuck.

I also got CK a Miles Davis album because, well, I figured out that CK is pretty hip and culturally tuned-in that night I slept on the floor of his flat, surrounded by his freakin' impressive DVD collection - which featured, I think, some David Lean, Stanley Kubrick and Fellini.

(I would've bought him the movie his nickname comes from - since he still hasn't seen THE PHILADELPHIA STORY, but it's not available on European regional DVDs. The disc would only play in America.)

I figured Miles Davis was a way to buy him something that maintained the proper level of cool that CK should likely be accustomed to, and I think he liked it.

Seeing Miss Gibson made me miss being able to see her all the time, even though I e-mail her constantly. We didn't have enough time, this time through, to really break the ice and get to talk about stuff of deep psychological and emotional resonance, though we did have moments.

She's one of my favorite people in the entire world, and I love when she comes to America. She raises the quality of the real estate.

No comments: