Grant Henry is my best friend and probably the reason why I never married (very much). So for this reason he owes me, and I think he knows it, because sometimes I’m able to bend him to my whim, like when he bought me dinner at Rathbun’s last week. So today I am trying to get him to buy me this 1953 Spartan Manor, and following are 3 reasons why:
1. I love it. I always wanted it. I have a weird fantasy about downsizing everything to where I live in it one day, probably plunked in the parking lot of a bowling alley, which I also want Grant to buy for me.
2. In the meantime he could park it in his patio at CHURCH bar. It could be indoor/outdoor seating. Grant keeps griping about codes and crap. Right. PUH-leez. It wouldn’t be an actual extension of the building, it would be just an elaborate patio umbrella, really, of sorts, one made of aluminum that kind of curves around and encloses you, and it’s on wheels.
3. I could sit in there and write the rest of my books. It could be like an exhibit, like the time Grant wanted to hang human babies from hooks in his place and call it an art installation, or this exhibit with Tilda Swinton, who, by the way, I once ate artichokes with in the company of Paste editor Josh Jackson. Art. See? It seeks itself out.