Sneak behind the concierge desk at Le Parker Meridien, through an Oz-like curtain, and suddenly there’s a burger joint. It’s tiny and messy and cheap, and make sure you order two.
We do when our heads are slammed and our hearts are grated.
“The problem with drunk girls,” says The Seeker, swiping for fries, “is that they just keep telling. It’s like, oh, didn’t need to know that. Oh, please don’t keep going. Oh, you really need to stop.”
“But the problem with sober girls,” I counter, with ketchup, “is we’re usually too afraid to say the truth.”
“You play games,” he says.
“No. We’re just too scared. We don’t want to admit things. If you know everything, you can use it.”
He looks away. There’s a Star Wars poster on the wall and bricks with Paris Hilton graffiti.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Exactly,” he grins, “that’s the whole point.”
[ARDEN WOHL - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]