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BLISTER

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;Here it comes again. No ;sooner has my dirty cohabitational coffee table recovered from the spit-sparring of the last tedious election cycle than twat-twig Ann Coulter pops up on the flat-screen calling hottie John Edwards a "faggot" at CPAC. Why, oh why, do I have to be worrying about homebound stumping fights when it's only 2007? Nothing was supposed to happen in 2007, except just about everything that isn't Alan and me having a nasty partisan fight.

;;"Liberals are just as bad," he throws a log at a cabin.

;

;"Um, she said ‘faggot,'" I catch it. "First of all, liberals are faggots (or vice versa) and second of all, last I checked, so are you!"

;

;Doors slamming, glasses breaking, dogs barking, logs burning. The usual, please.

;

;"Let's go out and pretend you're Andy Warhol and I'm Edie Sedgwick," comes a mysterious but fabulous cryptogram into my mobile speaking device. It's Savannah and she couldn't have media-appeared at a better time. Unlike, say, Ann Coulter.

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;"Totally," I text back, and in few minutes she's at my door, forcing my domestic dispute into a polite acting exercise.

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;"Love you," I kiss Alan goodbye.

;

;"Love you." He'd better.

;

;Savannah and I have achieved only the artiest of artifice by inverting our expensive outfits' blues and greens, and we are both quite chuffed with how much better we are than everybody else, while still knowing deep inside that we're far worse. We're riding a contrast wave tonight, secure in the knowledge that even when you dress up shit, the stains are almost unbearable. Tip: Never wear the same outfit twice.

;;To that end (or out of it), we're panty-raiding a grand opening party at Sky 60 for a new boutique on Mills called Etoile Boutique. The fashionistapreneur behind the whole thing is a girl called Katie who, in her MySpace invite, allowed that I probably would be molested tonight and certainly would get drunk. Oh, my two favorite push buttons!

;;"Here are your panties," she greets us upon our entrance. And she's right: There are indeed panties in my hand. More specifically, American Apparel green "Etoile Boutique"–assed jersey-mesh girlie panties that totally match both of our outfits. I wish going out were always this easy.

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;"Should we put them on?" Savannah squirts.

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;"No, dear. We wouldn't want to stain them."

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;Katie buys us a drink while we survey the crowd (mostly diagonal-striped, cut-out-clothes girls-with-bangs and their fey hoodie boyfriends — the kind of Monday people who actually go out on Monday nights).

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;"There's no cute guys," Savannah clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth brattily.

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;She's right, so we instantly take a seat on a giant black-and-white pillow square and proceed to take pictures of ourselves while everybody watches. Very Warhol.

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;"Andy, you must take my picture," etc.

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;A waft of food drifts over, inciting mutual bulimia, and we binge-run toward its origin. Black Bean Deli has catered the affair with a collection of brown foods, one morsel of which I pop into my mouth to swish around for a bit before washing it down with Grey Goose like a giant meat-n-potato pill.

;;"Wow," I Andy-pan. "I think that was good."

;

;"You're the boss, applesauce," Savannah Edies, but doesn't eat. "I prefer that they don't have food at my parties. I mean, I don't even drink. So, what, I go home and feel fat and sad?"

;

;Tragic. Anyway, overhead the sounds of "Iko Iko" as mashed up with "Genius of Love" are making me nervous, as are the point-and-giggles coming from the 20-something po-emo set, but we keep taking pictures anyway, if only to appear more beautiful and boring than we actually are. At one point, some cosmic capsule about 3 inches long pops out Savannah's purse while she's looking for a replacement battery for her much-abused camera.

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;"Oh, that's not a battery!" she shoves it back in.

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;"That's not even your size!" I gross out.

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;"Lots of lube."

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;Eww. Projected on the wall, apropos of the boutique's name — étoile either means heavenly body or blank slate, according to Katie — is some sort of '70s physics film that blasts Milky Way images intermittently with the unappealing mug of Stephen Hawking. Cosmic, indeed.

;;"Would you ever trade all of your glamour and beauty to be as smart and ugly and Stephen Hawking?" Savannah talk radios.

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;"I don't have to," I squawk back. "According to the theory of relativity, nothing can travel faster than light. Thus if light cannot escape, neither can anything else; everything is dragged back by the gravitational field. So one has a set of events, a region of space-time, from which it is not possible to escape to reach a distant observer."

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;"What?"

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;"Nothing," I black hole.

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;And at that very moment, something distant blasts out of the space-time and drags our escaping light back to the event at hand. And it's not a potato fart.

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;"Tell it to my heart, tell me I'm the only one. Is this really love, or just a game?" Taylor Dayne is a smart and ugly galaxy unto herself. We sing along, quite obnoxiously, until the song's scientifically predictable end, and then make a hasty exit out of the universe. I'm not Warhol, I'm not smart, I'm not beautiful and I need to get home.

;

;"I love you," I curl up next to a blissfully slumbering Alan. "I mean it."

bmanes@orlandoweekly.com

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