TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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I nearly miss my brother's show, puffing anxiously on a cigarette that Joe offered me, (and, since my short attention span prohibits me from acquiring any long-lasting addiction, I forget, of course, to inhale), as his pale-blue Volvo dodges taxicab and pedestrian; certain streets prove elusive.
Elusive, too, a private moment with my brother, who slouches among admirers and friends and patrons eager to purchase his paintings.
On the wall, his paintings hangs, accompanied by red dots indicating Sold!
I want that one, a red-coated girl whispers to her companion, who is flipping through a price list.
My brother/Dee/Deth/DethpSun/ "emerging artist"/ shrugs and offhandedly, maybe jokingly, says, Yep, I've sold out
Red dot adorning her finger, an officious-seeming woman informs another woman, Our organization allows the patron to connect with the artist.
Frowning, Deth snaps my picture--too late, I look down and away.
Sushi: the so-far-best place in town? Country Station on Mission, between 17th and 18th.
Here, butterflies perch in the messy tresses of crazy (and I never use this word lightly) waitresses who bring --smiling gleefuly and an hour late, mind you--platters of delicious food, consumed with cup after cup of hot sake amidst rump-dented pillows and picture books on butoh. Look out for the many polaroids taped haphazardly to the walls!