from David Byrne's web space. i fear someone writing, saying, or thinking about me:
". . . and I have dinner by ourselves at a hip restaurant where she is spotted by another former gallerist who later says he was dying to introduce her to Lucien Freud, who was also dining there. We are sitting next to a largish couple from Northern Ireland who, to be honest, don’t seem to belong in such a groovy temple. (Here I go applying my own class evaluation.) He’s an IT functionary in town for business meetings and she’s riding on the expense account tab, or so I would guess. They look like northerners on holiday in the big city, but they mention that they’re staying next door at the Ritz, which is more than an ordinary branch manager could afford. They explain some of the local dishes — Jersey Royals are a miniscule type of potato only available at select times of year. Either from a glass of wine or something medical the woman has turned bright red — all over, face, neck, arms — but they’re so unassuming and easygoing and lacking all pretense that her redness doesn’t register after a minute or two."
i realize that it's absurdly narcissistic to imagine someone talking about me, but i know it's done, and i figure i'm as vulnerable as anyone else. and although i have a blustering love of luxury, and -- it's true -- when on vacation, i force myself to believe that i belong at a gallery or at a restaurant i can't actually afford, i still hear their voices in my head. in a way, it's nice to see it confirmed because then. i. won't. be. crazy.