Lonely cabins in the woods are so last century. The next big horror blockbuster should be set at the New York International Gift Fair, where a killer stalks the endless aisles of novelty crap, wiping out any vestige of good taste. If Freddy Krueger had shown up at any point over the past few days and flashed his demonic manicure, I can’t say I would have been very fast on my feet. Exhausted, sick, distracted, and overwhelmed, I might have committed seppuku on his pointy fingernail if it weren’t for my buyer, Luana, keeping our spirits up and our progress organized.
I haven’t been to New York in a long time. The cab drivers still talk incessantly on their cell phones-to whom I don’t know, but they must have killer rate plans. The streets are as crowded as ever and still alternate between smelling of sewage and of garbage. They’re still building the Mormon Hideout behind our apartment on Eighty-eighth Street, the drills and hacksaws buzzing to life at an uncivilizedly [sic] early hour. Those blasted Mormons and their work ethic!
God only knows what Rob gets up to every week when he comes to stay. The Ikea bureau that collapsed last summer is still in a heap in the corner. He’s probably not having an affair because there is a DVD of “H.R. Pufnstuf” on the shelf, and I am the only person I know who would have an affair with someone who owns a DVD of “H.R. Pufnstuf.”
Oh, wait, here’s Mr. Krueger now. More later.