What I love about about staying in the US is that I understand nothing about the place.
In New York, I live at 50 Gramercy Park. It's the sort of place where rich people go to die. I bought the place for entertainment. There is two kinds of residents who live here: those that live in the hotel on a temporary basis, and those that live in the apartments until they die. Those in the hotels we call the "acutes" and those in the apartments the "chronics".
It's a kind of like an elevator where the poor couldn't afford a ticket, where the middle class decided to get off at the floor where the suberbs and polo-shirts were, and where the rich fat people combusted because the altitude created by the now ridiculously high elevator was too great for them. Imagine it, all the little bits of fat flying everwhere like bacon bits. Even in writing that sentence, I feel a tiny bit of fat grow on the bones on which my skin clings to like an Alaia dress.
Only the skinny rich people survive in our elevator at this point. It is here, where they tumble out in a pile of dead man's bones, that they arrive at 50 Gramercy park. It is not the type of place that exists in the City in the Sex woman's books. There is none of this nouveau riche riff-raff that buys so many Chanel dresses these days. Just yesterday we sent ten truckloads to the North Koreans. Who knew communism paid so well? We shipped them with trucks saying "URANIUM" and "FISH", which probably explains the whole business with nuclear weapons at the moment.
Woman number one, we'll call her Madame. She's a chronic, and lives in the apartment next to mine. She's got an intense sort of blonde hair- it's either a wig or dyed, but nobody knows which because she never leaves the apartment. I saw her from a distance when she moved in at midnight (goodness me, this sounds like one of those American soaps). Everybody else was asleep or entertaining, if you know what I mean. Some people have dinner parties that run very late.
Every day a man pulls up in a limousine, and carries a mask. It is the same mask everyday: that of a well-preserved middle-aged woman. But lately, the man who carries the mask has been getting shabbier. One wonders if he'll just keel over.
In the hotel there's several residents who believe themselves to be members of the Italian Mafia. Nobody has bothered to tell them that "bonjour" is French. They wear Lanvin, because the good man at the shop assured them that Lanvin is a very Italian label. Showed them a picture of Alber- that convinced them. They're English, actually. There's several shootings each night, but nobody ever dies. They're terrible shots. When Anna was visiting me once she shot an assistant to show them how to do it. She is a good shot- better than those cowboys that exist in the rest of the states- Ron Paul and so on.