At the party to celebrate Kalikow’s buying the Post from Murdoch on Friday night, Teresa got very, very drunk. The lawyer started coming on to her, and Teresa says they were nuzzling and petting at the restaurant. “It felt good,” she told me. He took her home, where she got violently ill and couldn’t remember anything the next morning.
Gwen, Crad reported, died when she choked on her own vomit in her sleep following a combination of alcohol and barbiturates: “I think she pushed me out of her life because she couldn’t stand me anymore and felt I was making her sick. Her last note to me was completely free of rancor, however, so I prefer to think that she harbored no bad feelings toward me at the end.”
We had the buffet Sunday brunch at the Yuppified, Soho-ized, gentrified Carlyle. To me, it was dreadfully expensive, but I did enjoy the view as we sat outside. South Beach attracts an arty, gay, European and New Yorkish crowd, and I suggested to Teresa that she might enjoy living there.
If this works out, the thing I most wished for in 1988 has come through. It’s scary, and I feel stunned. Part of me feels they’ve made a mistake and I’m not up to the job. The other part of me is so thrilled at this opportunity, I don’t know whether to scream or eat a banana.
I’ve always thought of Pete as the quintessential East Village writer, but he’s decided to move to Park Slope. He can’t get any writing done because the neighborhood truants are always singing “We Are The World” or some rap song. Pete is also tired of the invading Yuppies and the drug dealers and all the NYU students.
Robert came in late and said, “So I won’t see you again?” I just smiled.
At City Deli in the 163rd Street Mall, the turkey on rye was really good, but I lost my appetite as I glanced at a USA Today article about the parents of an AIDS patient who died in March. Suddenly I put their last name and the face of the guy in the photo together and realized it was Lance! He died at University Hospital in Irvine just after his 31st birthday.
Dad and Mom hired a girl to help them at the flea market; she’s in her eighth month of pregnancy with her fourth child, and she isn’t even 21 yet. A high school dropout, she’s unmarried and lives with her mother and her mother’s fourth husband. Dad said the girl is “stupid, but she can sell.”
I’ve got to return to the eye care center tomorrow morning after I sleep with the new extended-wear lenses tonight. When the doctor asked me if I sleep with my current lenses, I replied, “No, we’re just good friends.”
One of the students gave me an envelope with my name on it, and when I peeked inside, there was a thank you note and what I thought was a $20 bill. Embarrassed, I said, “I can’t take this.” “We are Cubans,” one said, “and we will be insulted if you don’t take our gift.”