FireVaney's

The Playboy woman, whose old fogy folks don’t want her to rent the apartment to a cat owner, keeps calling Eryk. She keeps telling him how much she likes us (or likes him —although I get the sense that she’s not into guys—or perhaps she assumes he and I are a couple, this being “Boystown” after all). But Eryk will not part with that darn cat. * Although the Playboy woman pulled the “For Rent” sign from the building’s front door four days ago, she told Eryk that she’s showing the apartment “to a few more people.” Are we her fallback prospects? Either way, she is very friendly. But then personability is key when your job involves coaxing young women to disrobe and pose for a globally circulated publication. Then again, the place has been on the market for three months. So… she’s picky? Well, you gotta be a picky if you’re the one auditioning Playboy Playmates. Amirite?  18 April 2001  After being strung along for another week and a half, the Playboy woman told Eryk that her m...

You’re not gonna believe this. So, Eryk Eiríkr and I looked at a smallish two bedroom-ish apartment just five doors east of my current address. The woman who showed us the place (on behalf of her parents) works for Playboy magazine—for real! She has the arduous job of auditioning models—yes, that’s right, in the flesh. If we took the place, she told us she’d throw in a couple of Playboy T-shirts. The major drawback to living there, if we choose to do so (we’ll know tonight, after we look at several more potential bachelor pads), is that the one bath room is only accessible through one of the bedrooms. Meaning: One of us would have to sacrifice some privacy. 12 April 2001 Yeah, so, Eryk owns a high-maintenance feline named, Queenie. * I’ll explain. One may only pet this cat around her neck, under her chin, on most parts of her head, and up to halfway down her back. Touch her anywhere else and without warning she’ll bite you. She’ll also bite you once she’s had her fill of being pett...

Clive and I have recorded exactly fourteen hours of conversation. It started when he picked me up at the Linden Purple Line Station last Monday and it ended last night. We did not record for fourteen hours straight. No, I had work and sleep and hunger and various chores and errands to contend with; but every time we spoke—even on the phone—the tape was rolling. (That is, assuming I didn’t forget to turn the thing on.) We may even record Friday night’s Star Wars Trivial Pursuit Extravaganza with Eryk Eiríkr. *  Alas, a few seemingly precious moments of conversation were, inadvertently, left out of this week’s recording sessions. (Id est, it wasn’t on.) How curious that the best stuff always seems to escape the tape.  29 March 2001   * [Not his legal name, nor one he chose of his own accord.]