Reserection

going to the jurgen teller opening tonight with aloha and steve. i think juergen teller should have stopped photography in 1996. it would have saved us from seeing his dick.

so the opening was fun. here i was again, sessile and blonde in a same gallery. filled with funny fashion people like helmut lang and the nyt fashion editor and german sausages given away at the door under a yellow umbrella. obviously juergen teller works for marc jacobs. and went to ukraine. i saw one beckham pic, a face portrait, and she looked like a pig with orange skin. there was a lot of photographers attending. i thought, the population of photographers is growing so fast in nyc. like deejays, artists, curators. it's not competition, it’s a holocaust. air. everybody does everything and pretends to care. over and over. it's how we get to know so much about bullshits. we went out to smoke a cig and there was one model there with some shitpump local musician with a beard inflicting their friendship and loud laugh on all of us getting cancer and i wanted to put my finger down my throat. the model knew aloha but aloha didn’t know her, she came up to us and said hi to aloha ignoring the rest of us (me).

?"omahgah you have a new haircut!!"
?"..."
?"stephanie?"
?"i'm not stephanie"

?we drank more free wine and smoked more and had a nice time talking. silicon photonics, that nancy gonzalez bag, who would publish ulysses today? so anxious a world... so pussy a world... there's a theory, said aloha. there's always a theory. there’s a part of the brain that sends good signals when you feel excessively in control or excited. like if you’re flirting and you think the other person has a crush on you, you’ll be more confident and do silly things that you wouldn’t do if you thought the person had no feeling for you yet. and when you feel too confident, you make mistakes. conversely, the brain triggers negative feelings when you don’t feel in control, which helps you to avoid risks: you're more prudent when you doubt. some industries take advantage of this. casinos make you feel very comfortable and offer free drinks and such to get you excited and feel you’re in control, then your brain activates self-confidence and you take stupid risks. and you burn all your cash. insurance companies do the opposite, they scare the shit out of you with catastrophe-oriented speeches that persuade the risk-averse side of your brain. the more you feel anxious, the more you’ll need an insurance.

evil bows like this. it trusts pain over death once and for all. a world with its dead eyes open. conquered by impostors.

the brimful doubt.

gosh it's depressing.

afterwards we went to the after party at the maritime hotel but when we showed up it was a dinner table for invited guests. as “uninvited guests” we went in the next room and paid our wine and pizza, getting tired palavering with a six-sigma level of certitude on a sort of sofa, eating pizza.

last december malibu finally got her sex reassignment surgery. a three-hour operation. they shaved her crimped pubes, amputated her dick and chopped her testes off, and replaced them by a vagina and a clitoris. the operation went very well. she left the clinic after 5 days singing why pamper life’s complexities when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat? with a douche kit and a dilator because you have to dilate so the scar tightening doesn’t shorten the new vagina. everything was ok until it turned weird. they call it a phantom erectile penis. it’s a sort of clitoris hypersensitivity. the surgeon told malibu not to worry, that it was common after SRS. he explained that amputees sometimes have this feeling that an amputated limb is still there when it’s not, because the brain has neurons dedicated to each part of our body and when a body part is amputated, the neurons stay, and it takes the neurons a little while to realize that the organ isn’t there anymore. malibu’s neurons didn’t get it at all, they kept acting as if the new clitoris was the cut penis (which it was actually because they make the clit out of the glans). she had phantom morning erections, phantom erections every time she was standing up, and her swollen neoclit was itching on and off. they say sometimes the phantom organ itches because the neurons send random itch messages, but you can’t do anything about it because you have nowhere to scratch. usually the sensation disappears after a few weeks, the time it takes for the neurons to understand you replaced your dick by a clitoris, but by then it had been 4 months and the surgeon admitted it wasn’t normal and that there was a few kinks to work out, to what malibu said "don't tell me you gonna crush something else and when you done you make me look like an ass," and made a handjob pantomime. the surgeon understood her frustration and said another operation was needed in a spectacular parlance which meant it would be performed without additional cost. so she got another surgery. it consisted in taking some bits of the urinary canals and ejaculatory ducts out that they had left in the first place, and all the nerves which linked the former penis to the neurons. a butcher show. but it worked and today malibu is a woman. a carmen malibu dell’orefice. the doctor said she had to rest for a month to heal properly and not get her rump boned up a tergo recklessly but she’s feeling better already and horny and even said she wanted to start doing some rotations at the dungeon next week. she said she wanted to save for a third op to widen her hips. her operation was quite a buzz among the clients, some are eager to pay a substantial premium to be allowed to dribble while bashed with a view on her neoclit and smelly ass. you don’t have many post-ops doing this in NY.

i met ingrid and chiquita for a drink in chelsea, which turned into dinner. steve and a friend joined us, a private curator named spencer, who advises rich wall street guys on the best artists to invest in. he was so short that when we saw him we first thought he was far away. after dinner we walked in the winter to a hedge fund manager’s party friend of spencer’s set at the guy's place on jane street which was fine but kind of predictable and loud; in a word, straight. so we went to ingrid/chiquita’s apartment to smell some sniff but when we got there she couldn’t remember where she had put the pack. T-symmetric was there playing brain age. ingrid was freezing and put on a second pullover. in the kitchen the chelsea steam pipes, smells of heat, we opened a bottle of quincy and talked about the new year’s eve and diets and art (spencer) and chiquita told us about one of her clients who used to be a profiler for the FBI but was now occasionally a human ashtray.

T-SYMMETRIC: “i can’t decide if it’s cool or gross.”
CHIQUITA: “the guy eats butts!”
INGRID: “he tried his whole life to think his way into the heads of criminals no wonder he ended up with a fucked up brain.”
CHIQUITA: “and don't forget he sees ghosts.”
T-SYMMETRIC: "oh yeah. he has stories. all the ghosts are smokers."

steve and chiquita spent the night making eyes at each other, smiling at each other, talking about chiquita’s boy situation. i think chiquita hit it off with him.

STEVE: "45 is quite old. I'm actually 47."