graceland's Diaryland Diary

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Buy me a barcelona chair, please!

Today was interesting. I was helping my friend decorate his home via phone by selecting furniture from here while he was in the store and I thought about the International Man of Mystery from back in January. He never did follow up with me.

Spontaneously, I decided to e-mail him and send him the link knowing his recent purchase of an apt. in the city and his passion for mod furniture. No sooner did I hit send then my office phone rang, which I unsuspectingly answered. It was him. I was confused. "Oh hi, I was just sending an e-mail to you," I said, when it dawned on me that he must have received it instantaneously.

"Oh, you received my e-mail didn't you?" I said. "Hello," he said British accent booming. "Yes, well that would have been a bit too coincidental, wouldn't it have been, for me to have called just as you were contacting me, now wouldn't it?" he said. The British have such a way of speaking. I love it. They are the last of those who can speak the English language properly, followed by the Canadians who lose points (or gain them, pending your outlook) because of their French infusion.

We talked for what must have been 30 minutes. Possibly longer. He sent me a number of e-mail links regarding some other *exquisite* pieces that he is bidding on and I provided him with some recommendations of little known spots downtown with DJ's who cater to his favorite genre of music and quietly allow bar patrons to smoke.

His taste is so brilliant, I wondered several times if he might be gay. I had to remind myself of his Euro background, or rather I was reminded, when he led me to websites in both Italian and French that he translated via phone as he walked me through. "How's your Italian," he asked me. "Umm, it spans from prego to basta," I replied and he laughed.

But my God. The things that we looked at were glorious. Things I could never own in my lifetime and I could only wish to be invited to the homes of those well-off enough to purchase them. Prouve designs and Barcelona chairs. We used to have barcelona chairs in my house growing up. When we were younger my brother and I would sit on one together to watch TV until a fight broke out and he wrestled me off the chair and onto the floor.

I asked my father about those chairs later and he became irate. Actually, first he didn't what chairs i was referring to because I forgot they were called barcelona chairs. I kept describing them as green and then I started to describe their steel form and he said, "Oh! The Barcelona chairs. They weren't green, Grace, they were chartruese!" Typical artist. God forbid you can't nail down the correct pantone shade. Apparently, a handman he allowed to stay with him while the family was summering at the shore broke them in a drunken rage and threw them out rather than tell my father. My dad said, "I get so depressed when I think about those chairs, it makes me want to suck on the gas pipe." I burst out laughing. He repeated himself, "My God I am so depressed now. I hadn't thought about those chairs in a while. That A-hole! Oh! I should just suck on the gas pipe!" It's clear to see where my drama and despair may derive from. I honestly have never heard him say anything like that before. I wonder where he may have picked that up?

Shortly after that, my Dad said, "I had a shitty day. I can't believe those barcelona chairs are gone. I need a drink." I reminded him that his old friends are moving back into town and soon it will be just like when they were all in their 20's without kids again. "Not quite kiddo, we're all old now," he told me. And then he was off. Jeez.

I need one of the new versions of the Barcelona. I found several. It pains me. I can't afford one. As my father pointed out, I also have no room for one. He's right.

I need to either win the lotto, find a sugar daddy or marry well. I will have barcelona chairs.

Oh yes, they will be mine.

8:12 p.m. - 2004-03-31

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