Cambodia

As mentioned in an earlier installment, I love Cambodian Space Funk from the 60s and 70s. Often I imagine throwing a birthday party like so: red velvet cake and batik dress code, lots of cocaine, champagne, and oysters, and Lady Jane Fonda and Erykah Badu responsible for the music and keeping everyone under control. Wouldn't that be jolly?

There is a documentary at film forum on funk from Kampuch in April. Mark your calendars.

Friday night I went to an opening at Camille's store. Camille is a caricature of bourgeois social climbing vulgarity. Kim hates her, in fact when Kim saw the photos from the party I immediately received a "I can't believe you hung out with the user" text. Kim needs to cool it--Camille isn't all bad, and can be a delight when she isn't concerned with her social position or maneuvering into a position where she will in the future feel she has the ability to request a difficult and outrageous "favor" of a near stranger. 

Camille works at a store where it's unlikely you'll meet anyone worth knowing, although Friday you would've had the chance to meet China, Cash, and I. China put down the champagne and we reminisced about her recent fainting spells. You see, China used to drink, used to get down, but she's fallen out of it, the result being that she'll fall down on herself--collapse--in the middle of a bar or club. It's alarming, and ambulances have been called. I asked China if she had been to the doctor and she laughed. 

Kim and Brooklyn both forwarded me the same article in the New Yorker, the Michael Pollan piece on hallucinogens, and each in her own way is interested in having this trip treatment. I thought, "Please, let's just find some hallucinogens and champagne and spend the weekend at Charlus' in the Hamptons." But my great ideas fall on deaf ears when it comes to such things as therapy, and why? In fact for many years I have had this idea of Brooklyn and I being put in charge of a mental institution.  

China and Cash and I, however, have made a definite plan to have a bitch weekend--we refer to ourselves as "the bitches"--at Charlus to do just what I outlined above. I cannot wait until the weather improves as it is miserable in New York. 

An estranged friend and former roommate of mine has become semi-semi-semi-notorious. The other night he met Kanye and Jay, via the A$AP Crew (he's worked with Ferg in the past). The little fuck. Actually, I'm not Gore Vidal envious. 

After the opening, I went with Cash for a drink on Eighth Street. Afterward we went to an uneventful birthday party in $kid Row$, Lorimer stop. 

The next day, I saw Karl Lagerfeld/Rhianna/Erykah Badu at a party for the opening of the Fendi store on Madison Avenue. I could almost add an additional title to this journal relating to someday being invited to such an event. Of course afterward they all had dinner in the penthouse at One57.    

Angelica moves to New York tomorrow. Angelica is elegant, but has a tendency to drink and screech like her good friend Grace. Angelica is so much more attractive, so much more put together than Grace--ie., Angelica would never expose a bulbous, half-tattooed midriff (sorry Grace)--that when she does lose control it's amusing. She plans to live in Greenpoint or in my beautiful neighborhood, obviously the best choice in Brooklyn.

I highly recommend Jesús Rafael Soto at Galerie Perrotin on Madison/73rd. The exhibition closes on the fast approaching February 21st. These are unusual forms and arresting aesthetic endeavors.

Here is the first useful writing I've ever seen from the "Center" for "Fiction."