I waited for Makeal Flammini in the lobby of the posh
lower east side Milwaukee Hotel. She had just called from her cell and
in a breathy, sexy voice said, "Traffic is, like, totally jammed the
fuck up," and that she would be a few minutes late. I ordered a drink
and started reviewing all the question I wanted to ask her. A few
moments later she bursts through the doors in a whirlwind of young
sophistication and knowledge beyond her years.....
The woman in the Margaritaville beige button down, with the black eye, the long red frizzy hair is waving her hands in the air and sing-songing into the microphone about skin cancer and how the piano players instrument carrier resembles a coffin. Moments later she grabs her saxaphone and awkwardly dances around the perimeter of the pool weaving in and out of expressionless unimpressed seniors barely looking up from their Danielle Steele novels. She pauses in front of an old man with an oxygen tank, bermuda shorts, and uncontrollable trembling hands and begins to dry hump the air in front of him.
There is no indication as to weather or not he is enjoying this. He just eats his potato chips motionless and her sizable cargo panted hips thrust back and forth back and forth in front of his pool chair.