Yup so I'm a communist so why not report me to HUAC. Living communally in SoHo means that outside the shower you are aware that maybe someone wants in but you are not so sure. And when you round the corner to fetch your Post Toasties there is a lanky boy in a towel. Shaving no less. Just drags me, kicking and not really screaming, to the Richmond Avenue days when I was den mom and lease holder and one of seven one summer. And one bath and it never felt like trouble to anyone.
After school (oh, and my stellar screenings of the short & sweet digvids) headed over to the Mac Clubhouse (where, once again, Final Cut workshop was usurped by one for... Motion) and then onwards to Angelica to see some Italian movie, I'm not scared, which featured Courtney Love (represented by a bedraggled Italian kidnapping victim in a pit near an abandoned house). And, as usual, nearly expired due to hypothermia in the theatre as they like to, despite seasons, keep the theatres at a nice, bracing 40º. Afterwards I spied an Italian wine bar and we proceeded to meet two new people, Megan and Dino (2 of the 3 co-owners). At some point, after some white sangria(s) I decided that I had to, just had to, danceresquely gambol down the long hardwood floor of the adjoining clothing store (a good 200') towards a giant, 3-way mirror. And then back towards my stool, the concrete bar, Beth, my sangria.
The manager of the store, a humourless gay guy who came in to order a ginger ale (barf) was not warmed by my self-introduction as fashion model. Nor my suggestion that he phone me if ever he needs a fashion model.

Amongst David's books, around the bend from my sleeping corner, I discovered a copy of Bukowski's Shakespeare Never Did This.
A snippet from it, which warmed the cockles of my tarpit heart:

3.
We were driven to a Paris hotel which was right across
the street from the French editor's office. There were
2 French editors: Rodin and Jardin. I sent down for 5
bottles of wine and Linda Lee and I went to bed and
started drinking. These 2 French editors were
publishing 4 of my books. After a bottle or 2 I picked
up the phone and called them. One of them answered.
"Listen, you son of a bitch, are you Jardin or are you
Rodin?" Whoever it was, I cussed him good for 5 or ten
minutes. Then I hung up and Linda Lee and I drank some
more. Then I phoned again: "Listen, you son of a
bitch, are you Jardin or are you Rodin? I demand to
know who I am talking to! Are you Jardin or are you
Rodin? Are you Rodin or are you Jardin? I demand to
know!" After a while we all went to sleep.

Time to tug on my kneesocks and part my hair, grab my protractor and head back to school.
Protracted Love.