Dance of Death
This past Friday I took the 6 Bus down to Hyde Park were my man-at-arms Irv Gotti was holding court at his co-op house, getting 19 anarcho-marxist vegan grad students ready to put aside their polemics for an evening of ravey fun in honor of Dia de los Muertos. While there I ate tasty Indian food, had a terrific brain-pick with a young lady who practices the Millinery arts, danced all slutty with a bunch of physics students and artist’s models, was generally drunken, and basically stuck it to death all night long.
The following morning it was clear that I had overdone things: Head shrieking with pain, crumpled sideways in a homemade wicker chair, my trousers around my ankles, saytan in my hair, Wealth of Nations in one hand, a bottle of sweet vermouth in the other, and "Smash the patriarchy!" scribbled on my privates in red Sharpie.
After sleeping off my hangover I accompanied Irv through the Saturday morning fog to a little french bakery where we sipped espresso and nibbled art nouveau pastries. I don’t remember what we talked about. Probably chix. Later, we wandered over to the best record shop in Chicago, where Irvin chatted boisterously with the one clerk while the other wearied herself with eye-rolling.
After saying good-by to the co-opers, Irv and I boarded a train to eat a sumptuous meal in Chicago’s Chinatown, including (giggle) curried fish ballzzz. The restaurant was super small and packed, and we sat right next to a couple that was gabbing about some recent surgery. Yum! As we wolfed down our meal, Irv watched them depart, commenting, "they talked so we didn’t have to."
