OH CHRIST DON'T BE RIDICULOUS WE ALL KNOW YOU CAN SPEAK ENGLISH LIKE ANYONE AND WITH AS MANY MISTAKES AND A FOREIGN LANGUAGE DOESN'T MAKE YOUR STORIES MORE INTERESTING BUT ONLY MORE BORING.
i meet celine at 8pm in front of the whole foods on union sq. where i bought a bacon sandwich and a bottle of vitamin water and she’s already waiting when i get out of the store still wearing my sunglasses and she’s smoking a cigarette, which is new, and wearing a really tight skirt, which is hot, and a black guy is there selling crack pipes. i haven’t seen her nor alexandre (to whose flat we’re going) for 4 months and i’m tense, i’m kind of freaking out because i’ve wandered through the city before seeing them and i know i’m twenty, lost, crushed, that i’m kinda playing with the reality because it doesn’t suit me, and that i feel alone and that i’d like someone to tell me everything is gonna be okay but i don’t dare to ask because i don’t know how to explain how i feel or why i feel this way, so i keep quiet and answer yes, i’m okay when asked and i keep being angry for no reason and i don’t know if i’m able to love anyone or anything and being with my friends makes me fear everything will be confirmed, that i’m a monster and that i’m dead inside and everything. but i’ve seen them already and everything went fine and we laughed and i guess i was okay and we talked about the friend i hit before and i did not feel judged nor anything, i just felt it was okay i was not always okay and we didn’t talk very much about that, nor about my shrink and the fact that i feel really weaker since i saw him first.
celine and i take the subway and we talk about how things are going on and i don’t have much to say except i’ve screwed up many things recently but i don’t tell it, i just say i’ve been hanging around when asked what i did recently and she tells me about her new life here in nyc and she suddenly smiles, proudly, and shows me her fake id, her faked id, which makes me laugh because she simply overwrote with a ball pen her real birthdate. we miss our stop, twice, so we get out something like 15 blocks away from the party, which is on the 41 or 2 and 10th av. i think, and we walk through times sq. and we stop at a food emporium and we buy a pack of beers and, when we pay, the cashier takes the card, looks at it, freaks out, takes it closer to his nose, can’t seem to realize what he’s seeing, stays this way like ten seconds and i’m really fucking scared some shit is going to happen, that he’s going to call his boss who’s going to call the police but it does not happen because he gives us back the card and let celine pay because she does not let me, and my paranoid self tells me that when he’s typing on his machine he’s calling the police so they can arrest us in the street with alcohol and a fucking badly faked fake id. i don’t feel safe until we cross the hallway of the building.
we’re going to the 46th and last floor, on the rooftop where we have a view over downtown manhattan, all lit up, and we got a really nice view of the empire state building which is green and red and ugly and on other less interesting things like bus depots. there are a few people up there, mostly the people who live here and i don’t know anyone except alexandre and celine and they all seem older, drunker, better dressed (i’m disturbed because i’m wearing a white and blue polo and beige shorts and i fear it does not look good, but ibtissame tells me later that saint-laurent thought it was really fine, really elegant), and to know each other, which scares me because i don’t know how to fit in and i know they’re all in business school or done with it and i don’t know if we have anything in common. there are hot girls who look like they could be on lastnightsparty or on american apparel ads and they have high heels long legs round asses small tits and dark hair and if pierre saw them he surely would say they looked superficial and empty and bratty and i would not believe him because he worships ingrid bergman. i feel shy, now, especially because i’m really sober and i drink a few beers talking with alexandre about violence, looking at the city and then with celine and the friendly-looking girl she talks to and who’s called julie, who is the first stranger i say anything else than “nice to meet you” tonight and she’s working for an humanitarian organization and i don’t even think it’s funny and then we talk about gospel masses and i’m beginning to feel really fine and i’m looking forward to pierre and ibtissame arriving because i’m drunk and really wondering how i’m gonna handle so much strangers and the fact i have to talk to them one way or another.
then a black guy working for the building informs us that the rooftop is closing and that we got to go inside and we all take the lift with the fridge full of beers and of girls who look even better closely, especially the one with a kind of legging with some strass on the ass which is ridiculous but terribly good looking.
inside i stay with celine and alexandre until pierre and ibtissame arrive and then we’re all together around the table drinking budweiser and also some rum and we laugh and really talk and the girls are inside a closed room maybe doing coke or maybe trying clothes (ibtissame told me later that one of them wore three different tops in the evening) and then the conversation moves to inception and how good an actor di caprio is except for titanic and the beach which are mistakes and i’m talking to some guy working from ernst & young who just arrived from france and everyone here is french even though the girls have italian-sounding names like micaela, giulia or silsa. then silsa is making fun of my last name and we’re talking about her internship and other things and some guy named ali wants me to say his name which i finally manage to do and i’m still drinking and ibtissame and pierre are here too and ali is flirting with silsa so obviously were laughing at him, and maybe i am too though i know she’s not my type.
then i don’t know how but i end up talking to one of the pretty girls because i cracked a joke we laughed at or something like that and she’s really pretty, and really friendly too, she laughs and she’s got really deep dimples when she does which i find really nice and she asks me: “you’re vadim right?” and i’m surprised because nobody ever remembers it the first time and i’m flattered and i tell her and she says: “i asked you twice to be sure i’d remember it” and i think it’s really nice and i feel ashamed i don’t remember her name which i ask, and she seems to use two, the first, which is tahitian and that i’ve never heard and which is really nice and the second wich is more classical, greeker, and then she asks me where i live and what i’m doing here and i tell her “on the 87th, upper east side” which is very vague and she says “oh i work on the 88th, we should see each other before you leave!”, and she repeats “we should see each other” and i am in the heart of the nightlife and i really would like that to happen though i doubt it will and when we’re talking i’ve got my hand on her hip and i guess she has hers on mine or at least we’re talking pretty close and at some point i touch her ass and she does remove my hand but she does it really softly, really gently and nicely and it does not seem like she’s telling me she is in a relationship with a guy named boing boing on facebook but simply that this would happen someplace else, some time else. to the lighthouse is playing after nas’s i can and i tell her i’d like to kiss her though i know it’s lame and it never works but i have this new mantra making me tell things i want or feel if i’m able to, and i’m drunk, so i can, so i do. i have this other mantra which is “i feel better”. i got it at this hot chip gig a girl took me to and there were mostly gays and she was fine, cute and hot and smart and funny but i did not do anything to kiss her because i was not sure she wanted me to and i was really high because a friend of her friend, some kind of unassuming gay, had some really good weed, and the music was surprisingly fine, a marriage between abba and motley crüe (which i don’t know anything about except their t-shirts who look really manly and embody my idea of heavy metal). so i’m telling her i want to and i kiss her on the cheek and her neck smells good and she says “no, not now” and it seems to my drunk-sleeping paranoid self she said: “you’re drunk, but i like you, another day it will be okay” because she really looks disappointed i can’t go out with them but i’m wearing shorts and am underage and so we all leave but i take a last beer ibtissame wraps in two plastic bags for me but before i ask my tahitian-named girl for her last name so i can add her on facebook because we’re not intimate enough for me to ask for her number and she doesn’t suggest i could take it and anyway i don't think about it and i ask her: “can you spell it for me because i’m a little tight” and she does but i get it wrong and our romance borns-dies here.
in the streets it’s all bright lights bright city big lights big city blind lights blind city and peeing at the mcdonald’s on times sq. and taking pictures with out-of-nowhere latinos and i’m thinking about the girl i felt really good with at a time i was really feeling bad and i’m thinking i could be fine with her anytime and i think about kissing her in front of an hopper at the whitney, i think about her naked and about her in brooklyn and i think about her in a skirt and about her drinking coffee and about her doing this and this and about her legs opened and about her talking to me and smiling to me and i thank her for the good time and i nearly pray for she gives me more of this and i know i’m lying, i know there’s no way we can love each other and no future and i remember she’s older, and anyway i didn’t feel good thanks to the girl but to the booze and i know it, that’s why i’m thanking her so hard, because she’s the hope i could be okay without alcohol drugs and meds, and i don’t want to have to attend aa meetings now.
J'ai été proprement incapable de choisir un seul de ces quatre morceaux que j'ai écouté à peu près plus de 100 fois chacun ces derniers jours. Vitesse est sorti du chapeau d'un type bossant pour le LA je sais pas quoi chroniquant un titre de Kisses dans un article que je lisais pour alimenter mon obsession et il mentionnait ce groupe complètement inconnu, sans myspace officiel, avec 4000 pauvres auditeurs sur last.fm (The Cat's Miaow en a 4 fois plus, ça aide à relativiser) et qui n'a pas grand chose à voir avec les susmentionnés baisers si ce n'est que c'est de la synthpop. Duo de Chicago et aujourd'hui abandonné, dont l'un des types bosse/ait pour the onion, Vitesse joue de l'electropop mélancolique et dépressive avec une urgence évidente et ce n'est pas pour un mauvais jeu de mot (premier disque enregistré en 36h bonjour), c'est complètement obsédant et lancinant et brumeux et cotonneux et c'est des batteries de boîte à rythme et des synthétiseurs et des guitares neurasthéniques mais sous amphétamines, tu vois ce que je veux dire? C'est Joy Division joué par des mecs en combinaisons d'astronaute, c'est une voix complètement désabusée, c'est toujours trop années 80s mais qui en a quelque chose à foutre sérieux, c'est un peu la bande-son du débit du début d'ivresse dans les rues où la nuit tombe ou le jour se lève et le début et le débit de la dépression et puis c'est vraiment la lumière qui rayonne à travers le papier de riz, la lumière du jour d'hiver qui est bien froide et qui sent les néons et la pluie et puis c'est beau vas-y.