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American psycho piano pdf torrent

American psycho piano pdf torrent

american psycho piano pdf torrent

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Bach - Siciliano Easy Piano arr. Bach J. Why did it take me so long to realize that she has all the personality of a goddamn game-show host? He killed two teenage boys? Depraved faggot. Droll, really droll. There is none. Suddenly: Upper West Side. Two cabs behind this cab both blare their horns then move on. Why should we get Evelyn flowers? Jesus, Bateman, you should see how ripped my stomach is.

The definition. These two go together about as well as paisley and plaid. He rings the bell. Price follows her with his gaze and when he hears footsteps from inside coming down the hallway toward us he turns around and straightens his Versace tie ready to face whoever. The new Talking Heads on CD plays softly in the living room. Where are you, Evelyn? Your face has a … youthful glow. Do you mind? Her long blond hair is pinned back into a rather severe-looking bun and she acknowledges me without looking up from the oval Wilton stainless-steel platter on which she has artfully arranged the sushi.

She stands back from the platter and inspects it. Price hands me a drink and walks toward the living room while trying to remove something invisible from his blazer. You did tell them, I hope. And Vanden, his girlfriend. The East Village? Vanden goes to Camden and Stash lives in SoHo, so there. Vanden has green streaks in her hair. She stares at a heavy-metal video playing on MTV while smoking a cigarette.

Vanden looks over warily, probably drugged to the eyeballs. She takes it, says nothing. Stash starts smelling his fingers. Evelyn finishes opening the Japanese beer bottles and tells Courtney to fetch Stash and Vanden. Tempura is in the microwave and the sake is just about done boiling. I make myself another drink. I worry about the sodium level in the soy sauce. Four of us sit around the table waiting for Evelyn and Timothy to return from getting Price a lint brush.

Stash has pushed a chopstick into a lone piece of yellowtail that lies on the middle of his plate like some shiny impaled insect and the chopstick stands straight up. Stash occasionally moves the piece of sushi around the plate with the chopstick but never looks up toward either myself or Vanden or Courtney, who sits next to me sipping plum wine from a champagne glass. Timothy shifts his glare to Evelyn and hesitantly takes the seat next to Vanden, who yawns and turns a page of her magazine.

The table begins to serve themselves, successfully ignoring Stash. I stare at Courtney as she chews and swallows. Evelyn was in Lausanne. Evelyn probably thinks Vanden is sweet, lost, confused, an artist. While taking a large gulp from his drink Timothy holds up the copy of Deception and chuckles to himself. What about the massacres in Sri Lanka, honey? What about Sri Lanka? Got it? The Tonka. About how the Sikhs are killing like tons of Israelis there?

Sure our foreign policy is important, but there are more pressing problems at hand. And slow down the nuclear arms race, stop terrorism and world hunger. Ensure a strong national defense, prevent the spread of communism in Central America, work for a Middle East peace settlement, prevent U. We have to ensure that America is a respected world power. Better and more affordable long-term care for the elderly, control and find a cure for the AIDS epidemic, clean up environmental damage from toxic waste and pollution, improve the quality of primary and secondary education, strengthen laws to crack down on crime and illegal drugs.

We also have to ensure that college education is affordable for the middle class and protect Social Security for senior citizens plus conserve natural resources and wilderness areas and reduce the influence of political action committees. We have to find a way to hold down the inflation rate and reduce the deficit. We also need to provide training and jobs for the unemployed as well as protect existing American jobs from unfair foreign imports. At the same time we need to promote economic growth and business expansion and hold the line against federal income taxes and hold down interest rates while promoting opportunities for small businesses and controlling mergers and big corporate takeovers.

But why does she sleep with Stash? We have to stop people from abusing the welfare system. We also have to control the influx of illegal immigrants. We have to encourage a return to traditional moral values and curb graphic sex and violence on TV, in movies, in popular music, everywhere. Most importantly we have to promote general social concern and less materialism in young people.

The table sits facing me in total silence. Timothy just shakes his head in bemused disbelief. Evelyn is completely mystified by the turn the conversation has taken and she stands, unsteadily, and asks if anyone would like dessert. Tim quickly looks over at me. I glance at Courtney, then back at Tim, then at Evelyn.

Evelyn meets my glance, then worriedly looks over at Tim. Would you like to help? Evelyn comes back with the sorbet in Odeon margarita glasses and an unopened bottle of Glenfiddich, which remains unopened while we eat the sorbet. Courtney has to leave early to meet Luis at a company party at Bedlam, a new club in midtown.

I am the only one who saw Stash take the piece of sushi from his plate and slip it into the pocket of his olive green leather bomber jacket. When I mention this to Evelyn, while she loads the dishwasher, she gives me a look so hateful that it seems doubtful we will have sex later on tonight. But I stick around anyway. So does Price. Goode, nursing a cranberry and Absolut. Had Evelyn picked up the tab? He catches it then throws it back at me.

Are you listening, Bateman? I swear. I laugh. We slap each other high-five. Some little twerp over at The Feathered Nest. What do you expect? Oh my boyfriend, I love him but he loves someone else and oh how I longed for him and he ignored me and blahblah blahblahblah —god, how boring.

College kids. It matters, you know? Understatement of the century! Perfect couple. Did they meet on Love Connection or something? He walks over to Evelyn and bows next to her, checking out his reflection in the mirror. Patrick, get your friend away from me.

He looks deep into the mirror. He notices this and then smells her neck and I think he licks at it quickly and grins. I smell it. I go to a tanning salon. I tense up. Timothy is in her lap trying to push his head under the Ralph Lauren robe. I am fairly sure that Timothy and Evelyn are having an affair. Timothy is the only interesting person I know.

She has stopped struggling with him. He stands up. My espresso! He is completely silent as I walk him out of the brownstone. After he leaves I pour myself a brandy and drink it from a checkered Italian tumbler and when I come back to the bedroom I find Evelyn lying in bed watching the Home Shopping Club.

I lie down next to her and loosen my Armani tie. Finally I ask something without looking at her. I place the tumbler on the nightstand and roll over on top of her. While I kiss and lick her neck she stares passionlessly at the wide- screen Panasonic remote-control television set and lowers the volume. I finish it. Evelyn is addicted to Parnate, an antidepressant. I lie there beside her watching the Home Shopping Club—at glass dolls, embroidered throw pillows, lamps shaped like footballs, Lady Zirconia—with the sound turned off.

Evelyn starts drifting. I really doubt it. I masturbate, thinking about first Evelyn, then Courtney, then Vanden and then Evelyn again, but right before I come—a weak orgasm—about a near-naked model in a halter top I saw today in a Calvin Klein advertisement. Morning In the early light of a May dawn this is what the living room of my apartment looks like: Over the white marble and granite gas-log fireplace hangs an original David Onica.

A hurricane halogen lamp is placed in each corner of the living room. Thin white Venetian blinds cover all eight floor-to-ceiling windows. Next to the Wurlitzer jukebox is a black ebony Baldwin concert grand piano.

A polished white oak floor runs throughout the apartment. On the other side of the room, next to a desk and a magazine rack by Gio Ponti, is a complete stereo system CD player, tape deck, tuner, amplifier by Sansui with six-foot Duntech Sovereign speakers in Brazilian rosewood. A down-filled futon lies on an oakwood frame in the center of the bedroom.

Against the wall is a Panasonic thirty-one-inch set with a direct-view screen and stereo sound and beneath it in a glass case is a Toshiba VCR. A black-dotted beige and white Maud Sienna carpet covers most of the floor. One wall is hidden by four chests of immense bleached mahogany drawers. I urinate while trying to make out the puffiness of my reflection in the glass that encases a baseball poster hung above the toilet.

Afterwards I stand in front of a chrome and acrylic Washmobile bathroom sink—with soap dish, cup holder, and railings that serve as towel bars, which I bought at Hastings Tile to use while the marble sinks I ordered from Finland are being sanded—and stare at my reflection with the ice pack still on. I pour some Plax antiplaque formula into a stainless-steel tumbler and swish it around my mouth for thirty seconds. Then I squeeze Rembrandt onto a faux-tortoise- shell toothbrush and start brushing my teeth too hung over to floss properly—but maybe I flossed before bed last night?

Then I inspect my hands and use a nailbrush. I take the ice- pack mask off and use a deep-pore cleanser lotion, then an herb-mint facial masque which I leave on for ten minutes while I check my toenails. Then I use the Probright tooth polisher and next the Interplak tooth polisher this in addition to the toothbrush which has a speed of rpm and reverses direction forty-six times per second; the larger tufts clean between teeth and massage the gums while the short ones scrub the tooth surfaces.

I rinse again, with Cepacol. I wash the facial massage off with a spearmint face scrub. The shower has a universal all-directional shower head that adjusts within a thirty-inch vertical range. In the shower I use first a water-activated gel cleanser, then a honey-almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Vidal Sassoon shampoo is especially good at getting rid of the coating of dried perspiration, salts, oils, airborne pollutants and dirt that can weigh down hair and flatten it to the scalp which can make you look older.

The conditioner is also good— silicone technology permits conditioning benefits without weighing down the hair which can also make you look older. Also the Vivagen Hair Enrichment Treatment, a new Redken product that prevents mineral deposits and prolongs the life cycle of hair. Luis Carruthers recommended the Aramis Nutriplexx system, a nutrient complex that helps increase circulation.

Once out of the shower and toweled dry I put the Ralph Lauren boxers back on and before applying the Mousse A Raiser, a shaving cream by Pour Hommes, I press a hot towel against my face for two minutes to soften abrasive beard hair. Then I always slather on a moisturizer to my taste, Clinique and let it soak in for a minute. It also helps prevent water from evaporating and reduces friction between your skin and the blade.

Always wet the razor with warm water before shaving and shave in the direction the beard grows, pressing gently on the skin. Leave the sideburns and chin for last, since these whiskers are tougher and need more time to soften. Rinse the razor and shake off any excess water before starting. Afterwards splash cool water on the face to remove any trace of lather. You should use an aftershave lotion with little or no alcohol. Never use cologne on your face, since the high alcohol content dries your face out and makes you look older.

One should use an alcohol-free antibacterial toner with a water-moistened cotton ball to normalize the skin. Applying a moisturizer is the final step. Splash on water before applying an emollient lotion to soften the skin and seal in the moisture. Next apply Gel Appaisant, also made by Pour Hommes, which is an excellent, soothing skin lotion. If the face seems dry and flaky—which makes it look dull and older—use a clarifying lotion that removes flakes and uncovers fine skin it can also make your tan look darker.

A scalp-programming lotion is used after I towel my hair dry. I also lightly blow-dry the hair to give it body and control but without stickiness and then add more of the lotion, shaping it with a Kent natural-bristle brush, and finally slick it back with a wide-tooth comb. The laser lens is very sensitive, and subject to interference from dust or dirt or smoke or pollutants or moisture, and a dirty one can inaccurately read CDs, making for false starts, inaudible passages, digital skipping, speed changes and general distortion; the lens cleaner has a cleaning brush that automatically aligns with the lens then the disk spins to remove residue and particles.

I retrieve the copy of USA Today that lies in front of my door in the hallway and bring it with me into the kitchen where I take two Advil, a multivitamin and a potassium tablet, washing them down with a large bottle of Evian water since the maid, an elderly Chinese woman, forgot to turn the dishwasher on when she left yesterday, and then I have to pour the grapefruit-lemon juice into a St.

I check the neon clock that hangs over the refrigerator to make sure I have enough time to eat breakfast unhurriedly. I take a bran muffin, a decaffeinated herbal tea bag and a box of oat-bran cereal from one of the large glass-front cabinets that make up most of an entire wall in the kitchen; complete with stainless-steel shelves and sandblasted wire glass, it is framed in a metallic dark gray-blue. A bowl of oat-bran cereal with wheat germ and soy milk follows; another bottle of Evian water and a small cup of decaf tea after that.

Next to the Panasonic bread baker and the Salton Pop-Up coffee maker is the Cremina sterling silver espresso maker which is, oddly, still warm that I got at Hammacher Schlemmer the thermal-insulated stainless-steel espresso cup and the saucer and spoon are sitting by the sink, stained and the Sharp Model RA Carousel II microwave oven with revolving turntable which I use when I heat up the other half of the bran muffin.

The suit I wear today is from Alan Flusser. The favored version has extended natural shoulders, a full chest and a bladed back. The soft-rolled lapels should be about four inches wide with the peak finishing three quarters of the way across the shoulders. Properly used on double-breasted suits, peaked lapels are considered more elegant than notched ones. Four buttons form a low-slung square; above it, about where the lapels cross, there are two more buttons.

The trousers are deeply pleated and cut full in order to continue the flow of the wide jacket. An extended waist is cut slightly higher in the front. Tabs make the suspenders fit well at the center back. The tie is a dotted silk design by Valentino Couture. The shoes are crocodile loafers by A. Tell us. Mostly … Lambchop. The camera cuts to a close-up of a stunned housewife shaking her head, another housewife whispering something to her.

I take the elevator downstairs to the lobby, rewinding my Rolex by gently shaking my wrist. I say good morning to the doorman, step outside and hail a cab, heading downtown toward Wall Street. Van Patten is wearing a double-breasted wool and silk sport coat, button-fly wool and silk trousers with inverted pleats by Mario Valentino, a cotton shirt by Gitman Brothers, a polka-dot silk tie by Bill Blass and leather shoes from Brooks Brothers. McDermott is wearing a woven-linen suit with pleated trousers, a button-down cotton and linen shirt by Basile, a silk tie by Joseph Abboud and ostrich loafers from Susan Bennis Warren Edwards.

The two are hunched over the table, writing on the backs of paper napkins, a Scotch and a martini placed respectively in front of them. They wave us over. Carruthers is not dressed well: a four-button double-breasted wool suit, I think by Chaps, a striped cotton shirt and a silk bow tie plus horn-rimmed eyeglasses by Oliver Peoples. Bartenders always ignore Luis for some reason. What do you think? He brushes past Luis, who offers his hand.

Price smiles, says something, moves on, strides over to our table. He hands me the drink then sits down, crossing his legs. Part two, which tie knot looks best with them? I turn around to see who it is. Now shut up and listen. I want a blow-job, Bateman. I just want some chick whose face I can sit on for thirty, forty minutes. McDermott rolls his eyes up. We all take this in solemnly. No one says anything but we are all thinking the same thought: Never pick up a Vassar girl.

He bends down, balancing himself by putting a hand on the back of my chair. No babes, no blow, no brew. She calls her father—get this—Billy. You got one? It looks a helluva lot like him. Over there. You spin a dreidel. By the way, nice jacket; nonmatching but complementary. Finish it.

One hand on my cock, one hand on my balls, go on. Now it looks to me like his silk bow tie is by Agnes B. Preston looks at me. Because the last time I fucked a nigger she stole my wallet. And after a short moment of silence, the table cracks up too, except for me.

Van Patten gives him high-five. Even Price laughs. Will see you tomorrow. Preston leans forward before leaving. After we piled into a cab on Water Street we realized that no one had made reservations anywhere and while debating the merits of a new Californian-Sicilian bistro on the Upper East Side—my panic so great I almost ripped Zagat in two—the consensus seemed to emerge.

He slipped his Walkman on and turned the volume up so loud that the sound of Vivaldi was audible even with the windows halfway open and the noise of the uptown traffic blasting into the taxi. Things seem to be going smoothly. Plus there are four women at the table opposite ours, all great-looking—blond, big tits: one is wearing a chemise dress in double-faced wool by Calvin Klein, another is wearing a wool knit dress and jacket with silk faille bonding by Geoffrey Beene, another is wearing a symmetrical skirt of pleated tulle and an embroidered velvet bustier by, I think, Christian Lacroix plus high-heeled shoes by Sidonie Larizzi, and the last one is wearing a black strapless sequined gown under a wool crepe tailored jacket by Bill Blass.

Price orders the tapas and then the venison with yogurt sauce and fiddlehead ferns with mango slices. McDermott orders the sashimi with goat cheese and then the smoked duck with endive and maple syrup. Van Patten has the scallop sausage and the grilled salmon with raspberry vinegar and guacamole.

The busboy humbly removes the glasses, nodding to no one as he walks away. Look who just came in. Paul Owen? He has obviously been spotted by the person and flashes a bright, toothy smile. Scott Montgomery walks over to our booth wearing a double- breasted navy blue blazer with mock-tortoiseshell buttons, a prewashed wrinkled-cotton striped dress shirt with red accent stitching, a red, white and blue fireworks-print silk tie by Hugo Boss and plum washed-wool trousers with a quadruple-pleated front and slashed pockets by Lazo.

High-heeled shoes by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards. Sunglasses by Alain Mikli. Get the check yet? Just kidding. Nicki slinks behind him. I was wrong: she does have an ass. Anorexic, alcoholic, uptight bitch. Totally French. I want to fuck her. I want to marry her. I want her to have my children. Fuck off, you faggots. Take a look. Not bad, huh? Dizzy, I sip my drink then take a deep breath. I am unexpectedly depressed that I started this. Red snapper?

My card lies on the table, ignored next to an orchid in a blue glass vase. Gently I pick it up and slip it, folded, back into my wallet. Shut up. There are now eight Bellinis on the table. A pizza should be yeasty and slightly bready and have a cheesy crust! The crusts here are too fucking thin because the shithead chef who cooks here overbakes everything!

The pizza is dried out and brittle! A hardbody waitress stands looking down at me with this strange, glazed expression. I wipe a hand over my face, genially smiling up at her. She stands there looking at me as if I were some kind of monster—she actually looks scared—and I glance over at Price—for what? She flinches but I smile and she lets me pull her closer. So, you know, warn him. The left knee is knobbier, almost imperceptibly thicker than the right knee and this unnoticeable flaw now seems overwhelming and we all lose interest.

Where do you go? But when he sees no one else laughing he stops. There are things one could do with it besides getting a tan. It makes me not hungry but our meals arrive almost immediately after our appetizers are taken away and we begin to eat. McDermott undoes his suspenders. Price calls him a slob. I feel paralyzed but manage to turn away from Owen and stare at my plate the potpie a yellow hexagon, strips of smoked salmon circling it, squiggles of pea-green tomatillo sauce artfully surrounding the dish and then I gaze at the waiting crowd.

They seem hostile, drunk on complimentary Bellinis perhaps, tired of waiting hours for shitty tables near the open kitchen even though they had reservations. Van Patten interrupts the silence at our table by slamming his fork down and pushing his chair back.

I sigh and put the fork down, hopeless. I have to tape this movie on cable for Mandy. I think I gave thumbs-up to Conrad. Once she leaves, McDermott asks if we liked the food. I tell him the potpie was fine but there was way too much tomatillo sauce. The hardbody brings the check over. We split it but I need the cash so I put it on my platinum AmEx and collect their bills, mostly fresh fifties. McDermott demands ten dollars back since his scallop sausage appetizer was only sixteen bucks.

Outside Pastels a different bum sits in the street, with a sign that says something completely illegible. He gently asks us for some change and then, more hopefully, for some food. He gives me high-five. Price handles this all suavely, somehow, either by tipping the dorks or by persuading them with his clout probably the former.

It gets quieter as we move into the front hallway, heading toward the actual entrance, and we pass by three hardbodies. Those girls were very hot. Subtlety is not what these girls are after. Van Patten laughs and still in motion they give each other high-five. We hand our tickets to an okay-looking girl wearing a wool-melton duffel coat and a silk scarf from Hermes. These are some skanky chicks. I can just feel it. The music is so loud that conversation is possible only by screaming. The club is fairly packed; the only real light coming in flashes off the dance floor.

Everyone is wearing a tuxedo. Everyone is drinking champagne. The guy who lets them pass is wearing a double-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton wing-collar shirt by Cerruti and a black and white checkered silk bow tie from Martin Dingman Neckwear. Madison stands around, nodding to various people who pass by in the crush. Finally Price loses his cool. Great to meet you, Hugh. Use your drink tickets. You, Hugh, Who, fades into the crowd. I follow Price over to the railings.

As a joke I almost bring Tim a Bellini but he seems far too edgy tonight to appreciate this so I wade back through the crowd to where he stands and hand him the Absolut and he takes it thanklessly and finishes it with one gulp, looks at the glass and grimaces, giving me an accusatory look. I shrug helplessly. He resumes staring at the train tracks as if possessed. There are very few chicks in Tunnel tonight. Carruthers is out of town.

Ice cubes clank loudly, surprising me. She expects to be paid. They all do. I get bored watching Price, who is neither moving nor speaking. The only reason he occasionally turns away from the train tracks is to look for Madison or Ricardo. No women anywhere, just an army of professionals from Wall Street in tuxedos.

He sticks his own platinum American Express card into the powder, bringing it up to his nose to inhale it. I do some of it and come to the same conclusion. Price stares at me, eyes widening in disbelief, then flies into a rage and whirls around, pounding his fist against the side of the stall. Price leans against the door of our stall and stares at me in this hopeless way. Stepping out of the stall we wash our hands, inspecting our reflections in the mirror, and, once satisfied, head back to the Chandelier Room.

I finally have to lay a twenty on the counter to get her attention, even though I have plenty of drink tickets left. It works. Taking advantage of the drink tickets, I order two double Stolis on the rocks. She pours the drinks in front of me. She shakes her head again. Not Hunter. She continues to concentrate on the bottle of Stoli. I decide not to continue the conversation and just slap the drink tickets on the bar as she places the two glasses in front of me.

I leave the cunt no tip and find Price who is standing again, morosely, by the railings, his hands gripping the steel bars. Price says nothing, not even thanks. He just holds the drink and mournfully stares at the tracks and then he squints and bends his head down to the glass and when the strobe lights start flashing, he stands up straight and murmurs something to himself. There seem to be more girls in the Chandelier Room now and I try to make eye contact with one of them —model type with big tits.

Price nudges me and I lean in to ask if we should perhaps get another gram. Is that Conrad? Owen pulls out a cigar, then asks for a light. The Chandelier Room is packed and everyone looks familiar, everyone looks the same. Cigar smoke hangs heavy, floating in midair, and the music, INXS again, is louder than ever, but building toward what? I touch my brow by mistake and my fingers come back wet.

At the bar I pick up some matches. On my way back through the crowd I bump into McDermott and Van Patten, who start begging me for more drink tickets. No hardbodies. Behind him the strobe light continues to flash off and on and off and on and the smoke machine is going like crazy, gray mist billowing up, enveloping him. Only a few of the faces are fixated on Tim, still balancing on the railing, eyes half closed, shouting something.

He stumbles once, twice, with the strobe light flashing, in what looks like slow motion, but he regains his composure before disappearing into blackness. A security guard sits idly by the railing as Price recedes into the tunnel. He just shakes his head, I think. Come back! Madison is standing nearby and sticks his hand out as if to congratulate me for something.

Twelve-thirty and we watch limousines try to make left turns onto the West Side Highway. The three of us, Van Patten, McDermott and myself, discuss the possibilities of finding this new club called Nekenieh. Then private workout. I have taken out a gold Cross pen to write down the name of the restaurant in my address book. The doors shut. I am wearing a mini-houndstooth-check wool suit with pleated trousers by Hugo Boss, a silk tie, also by Hugo Boss, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Joseph Abboud and shoes from Brooks Brothers.

I flossed too hard this morning and I can still taste the coppery residue of swallowed blood in the back of my throat. I pull my Walkman off from around my neck as I approach her desk. She looks up and smiles shyly. Any messages? And what should I say? I sigh and place my hands together, sitting down at the Palazzetti glass-top desk, the halogen lamps on both sides already burning. All right? I get up and move all these sporting magazines from the forties—they cost me thirty bucks apiece—that I bought at Funchies, Bunkers, Gaks and Gleeks, and then I lift the Stubbs painting off the wall and balance it on the table then sit back at my desk and fiddle with the pencils I keep in a vintage German beer stein I got from Man-tiques.

The Stubbs looks good in either place. Listen, keep your eyes open for a tanning bed, okay? Remind me to return the videotapes I rented last night back to the store. That sounds good. And Jean? I mean how else are you going to keep up that devilishly handsome skin tone? I have a great secretary. She comes into the office five minutes later with the Perrier, a wedge of lime and the Ransom file, which she did not need to bring, and I am vaguely touched by her almost total devotion to me.

Wear a dress. A skirt or something. The phone on her desk rings. She turns to leave. In the two years since I signed up as a member, it has been remodeled three times and though they carry the latest weight machines Nautilus, Universal, Keiser they have a vast array of free weights which I like to use also.

Membership runs five thousand dollars annually. Satisfied, I turn the Walkman on, the volume up, and leave the locker room. Cheryl, this dumpy chick who is in love with me, sits at her desk up front signing people in, reading one of the gossip columns in the Post, and she brightens up noticeably when she sees me approaching.

No hardbodies at the gym today. Only faggots from the West Side, probably unemployed actors, waiters by night, and Muldwyn Butner of Sachs, who I went to Exeter with, over at the biceps curl machine. Butner is wearing a pair of knee-length nylon and Lycra shorts with checkerboard inserts and a cotton and Lycra tank top and leather Reeboks. I finish twenty minutes on the Stairmaster and let the overmuscled, bleached-blond, middle-aged faggot behind me use it and I commence with stretching exercises.

The topic was Big Breasts and there was a woman on it who had a breast reduction since she thought her tits were too big— the dumb bitch. I immediately called McDermott who was also watching it and we both ridiculed the woman through the rest of the segment. I do about fifteen minutes of stretching before heading off to the Nautilus machines. I used to have a personal trainer whom Luis Carruthers had recommended but he came on to me last fall and I decided to develop my own fitness program which incorporates both aerobic exercises and training.

With weights I alternate between free weights and weight machines that use hydraulic, pneumatic or electromechanical resistance. Most of the machines are very efficient since computerized keypads allow one to make adjustments in weight resistance without getting up. The positive aspects of the machines include minimizing muscle soreness and reducing any chance of injury. On the leg machines I do five sets of ten repetitions.

For the back I also do five sets of ten repetitions. Before moving to the free weights I spend twenty minutes on the exercise bike while reading the new issue of Money magazine. For the chest I do three sets and twenty reps of incline-bench presses. For the front deltoids I also do three sets of lateral raises and seated dumbbell presses.

Finally, for the triceps I do three sets and twenty reps of cable pushdowns and close- grip bench presses. I buy Lesbian Vibrator Bitches and Cunt on Cunt along with the current Sports Illustrated and the new issue of Esquire, even though I subscribe to them and both have already arrived in the mail. I wait until the stand is empty to make my purchase. The vendor says something, motions toward his hook nose, while handing me the magazines along with my change.

It comes away red, wet with blood. I reach into my Hugo Boss overcoat and bring out a Polo handkerchief and wipe the blood away, nod my thanks, slip my Wayfarer aviator sunglasses back on and leave. Fucking Iranian. When it dawns on him that I want to ask something, he sighs, rolls his eyes up and tells whoever is on the line to hold on.

Maybe even please? I am something unreal, something not quite tangible, yet still an obstacle of sorts and he nods, gets back on the phone, resumes speaking in a dialect totally alien to me. I collect my mail—Polo catalog, American Express bill, June Playboy, invitation to an office party at a new club called Bedlam— then walk to the elevator, step in while inspecting the Ralph Lauren brochure and press the button for my floor and then the Close Door button, but someone gets in right before the doors shut and instinctively I turn to say hello.

I thought it was quite a good movie, and Top Gun too. I really thought that was good. Not Bartender. The film was called Cocktail. Pat Bateman. We stand there in silence. While loosening my Matisse- inspired blue silk tie from Bill Robinson I dial her number and walk across the apartment, cordless phone in hand, to flip on the air- conditioning.

She answers on the third ring. Can I call you back? I go into the bedroom and take off what I was wearing today: a herringbone wool suit with pleated trousers by Giorgio Correggiari, a cotton oxford shirt by Ralph Lauren, a knit tie from Paul Stuart and suede shoes from Cole-Haan. After ten minutes of stretching, the phone rings and I wait six rings to answer it.

I put her on hold for two minutes, then get back on the line. I open the refrigerator and take out a liter of Evian. The two of us. I want you to do what you want to do. I mean for us? I just wanted you to see them. What are you doing? Listen, calm down, okay? With trembling fingers I dial the number. Panicked, I put the phone on Constant Redial and for the next five minutes nothing but a busy signal, faithful and ominous, repeats itself across the line.

Stunned, feverish, feeling empty, I contemplate the next move, the only sound the dial tone buzzing noisily from the receiver. Gather my bearings, count to six, reopen the Zagat guide and steadily regain my concentration against the almost overwhelming panic about securing an eight-thirty reservation somewhere if not as trendy as Dorsia then at least in the next-best league.

I take a hot shower and afterwards use a new facial scrub by Caswell-Massey and a body wash by Greune, then a body moisturizer by Lubriderm and a Neutrogena facial cream. I debate between two outfits. One is a wool- crepe suit by Bill Robinson I bought at Saks with this cotton jacquard shirt from Charivari and an Armani tie. Or a wool and cashmere sport coat with blue plaid, a cotton shirt and pleated wool trousers by Alexander Julian, with a polka-dot silk tie by Bill Blass.

A bottle of Scharffenberger is on ice in a Spiros spun-aluminum bowl which is in a Christine Van der Hurd etched-glass champagne cooler which sits on a Cristofle silver-plated bar tray. I have a glass of it while waiting for her, occasionally rearranging the Steuben animals on the glass-top coffee table by Turchin, or sometimes I flip through the last hardcover book I bought, something by Garrison Keillor.

Patricia is late. This is simply how the world, my world, moves. She gives a little gasp when I drop the news, ignores the apologies and turns away from me to glare out the window. Her eyes, I swear, intermittently tear. She orders the red snapper with violets and pine nuts and for an appetizer a peanut butter soup with smoked duck and mashed squash which sounds strange but is actually quite good.

The cab stops outside Tunnel. I pay the fare and leave the driver a decent tip and hold the door open for Patricia who ignores my hand when I try to help her step out of the cab. No one stands outside the ropes tonight. Once inside, after paying fifty dollars for the two of us, I head immediately to the bar without really caring if Patricia follows. She wants a Perrier, no lime, and orders this herself.

Patricia and myself are the only two customers in the entire club. We are, except for the occasional hardbody, literally the only two people in Tunnel. I move past them as they stand by the bar drinking champagne and head over toward this extremely well-dressed Mexican-looking guy sitting on a couch. I ask the guy if his name is Ricardo. He nods. I pull my wallet out and hand over a fifty and two twenties. He asks the Eurotrash chick for her purse. She hands him a velvet bag by Anne Moore.

Ricardo reaches in and hands me a tiny folded envelope. Before I leave, the Eurotrash girl tells me she likes my gazelleskin wallet. Back upstairs I find Patricia where I left her, alone at the bar, nursing a Perrier. Listen, do you want to do some coke? She puts her drink down on the bar and follows me through the deserted club, up the stairs toward the rest rooms. She comes back apologizing for her behavior earlier this evening.

But, oh yeah, I really loved the food at Barcadia. How long has it been open? I read a great review in New York or maybe it was Gourmet. Avatar is such a great lead singer and I actually thought I was in love with him once—well, actually I was in lust, not love.

Hand I am thinking. Shirt from Charivari. Fusilli I am thinking. Jami Gertz I am thinking. I would like to fuck Jami Gertz I am thinking. Porsche A sharpei I am thinking. I would like to own a sharpei. I am twenty-six years old I am thinking. I will be twenty-seven next year. A Valium.

I would like a Valium. No, two Valium I am thinking. Cellular phone I am thinking. Dry Cleaners The Chinese dry cleaners I usually send my bloody clothes to delivered back to me yesterday a Soprani jacket, two white Brooks Brothers shirts and a tie from Agnes B.

I have a lunch appointment at noon—in forty minutes—and beforehand I decide to stop by the cleaners and complain. In addition to the Soprani jacket, the shirts and tie, I bring along a bag of bloodstained sheets that also need cleaning.

Because of this excursion I have no time for a morning workout, and since I overslept, owing to a late-night—predawn coke binge with Charles Griffin and Hilton Ashbury that started innocently enough at a magazine party none of us were invited to at M.

I look sharp but my stomach is doing flip-flops, my brain is churning. Did I do this on purpose? Or did I do this accidentally? The old woman keeps jabbering in what I guess is Chinese and finally I have to interrupt. I brush her hand away and, leaning in, speak very slowly. Oh my god. Out of the question. These are very expensive sheets and I really need them clean.

Her face overall, maybe because of the wrinkles, seems oddly expressionless. Then, casually, I cut her off, talking over her again. I have never firebombed anything and I start wondering how one goes about it—what materials are involved, gasoline, matches … or would it be lighter fluid? You want some ham? Is that what you just said? You want … some ham? Her husband stands behind the counter, sullen and detached. She jabbers back, undaunted, pointing relentlessly at the stains on the sheets.

Taking off her sunglasses she offers a wide smile. Coming all the way up here, but you know they really are the best. I glare at her, forcing myself not to mimic the hand gestures. Oh really? You said Samantha. I examine her carefully in the seconds it takes to move from the edge of the sidewalk to the steps leading up to the brownstone where she sits, her head bowed down, staring dumbly into her empty lap. She looks up, unsmiling, after she notices me standing over her. Did I say that? I think you should concentrate on wearing a belt that coordinates with the trousers.

Hamlin is wearing a suit by Lubiam, a great-looking striped spread-collar cotton shirt from Burberry, a silk tie by Resikeio and a belt from Ralph Lauren. Anthony rests on an empty chair by our table. One of our CD Walkman headsets lies in the middle of the table surrounded by drinks and a calculator. Reeves and Hamlin left the office early today for facials somewhere and they both look good, faces pink but tan, hair short and slicked back. I knew that.

Trent is wearing a mini-houndstooth-check worsted wool suit with multicolored overplaid.

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Next I search the kitchen for anything that is editable and not expired. I then use my bathroom and observe the horrible image of that is my face. Then I return to my bed to watch X-vid and Netflix for exactly 3 hours. I then begin my elaborate xbox gaming session". And change the morning to afternoon and that is me. This is the best theme for waking up in the morning. I can listen to this over a thousand times now.

I like how the beginning is very upbeat and happy, then it slowly degrades into something much more sinister Absolutely perfect for Bateman. Because it's not just about the pleasures of classical music and the importance of trends! It's also a personal statement about the scene itself, Hey Paul!?!? I don't get how stating where you live before stating whats your name shows how self absorbed he is. More that where he lives and whats his social status is more important then who he is.

There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis; my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself.

No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing. L 8 months ago Juan its pong by umami! Juan 8 months ago L what is that animation. This is what depression sounds like. You seem happy to others, but there is a deep sad undertone to you like a polished shiny apple decaying on the inside. Artificially upkept by the shopkeeper so as to be sold, because the outside world doesn't tolerate your sadness or failure, or vulnerability.

You have to put on a maks, so that you become just a fake idea,an illusory, a product, and your true self doesn't exist. Great for showing Bateman's character. To kill a mockingbird page fan 5 days ago cringe. Allen Jay 10 days ago Dam.. Mathias 25 days ago Kylirr You're a tough guy, you don't like to go deep. Close your eyes and you'll always be happy, you won't ask for anything more. I love this. It feels like Arvo Part - with direction.

It is simple but the chord transitions are potent and structure is there. Very very nice. Yashaswini 2 years ago Oh my gosh I was thinking the same thing. Has the minimalism that is so characteristic to Part.

And relief washed over me in an awesome wave. This is very beautiful.. I really like this. Spent months looking for this after i saw the film a few years ago and gave up in the end! You're a hero. I have all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair; but not a single, clear, identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust.

Something horrible is happening inside of me and I don't know why. My nightly bloodlust has overflown into my days. I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy. I think my mask of sanity is about to slip. Exactly my thoughts! He was brilliant in this movie ad I love such a dark humor a lot! Thanks for your comment and take care : xoxo. I like to play this tune at approximately am, playing it any later in the day can cause creasing around the brow which makes you look old.

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable I simply am not there. I've red the novel some years ago, it was a real experience Never seen the movie. But this music is really nice. Hartmann F4 2 months ago Do you like it?

Thank you Hon : Yes.. The photo I used is from Christian's younger days ;. The song especially the beginning has that vibe of abandonment, or loss. As if something is missing in him. Of course I love it! John Cale, for one thing Only saw him a handful of years back, in fact.

Cool modern chiller of a film, too Excellent choice. I even like Christian Bale. Always have. You have it going on and you absolutely know it, who you kidding? Their early work was a little too new wave for my tastes, but when Sports came out in '83, I think they really came into their own, commercially and artistically Thanks Lisa! I totally agree! Glad you liked it! By this time it was pretty well established that Bateman was unhinged, but the question is, to what degree.

Did he really engage in those prior killing sprees or did he just imagine it? Or a third possibility, was he envisioning what it would be like to go completely berserk if all bets were off and he could completely get away with it. By the time the story's over, I think you'd have to be open to all these various interpretations, because in the 'real' world, you wouldn't have a realtor showing an apartment where bodies hung in the closet just days before.

Going in, I had some trepidation when the DVD opened to a menu screen suggesting a splatter flick, and if I'm not mistaken, an image of a chain saw somewhere along the way. So anticipating a chain saw scene, I could only groan at the impossibility of the physics involved in poor Jean Chloe Sevigny taking a direct bull's eye hit like that at the bottom of the staircase. Just one more suggestion that this wasn't really happening. And what of Donald Kimball Willem Dafoe?

What happened to him? Was this Bateman's guilt becoming manifest, either because of an actual murder or because of his own malicious thoughts? Generally I get really upset about movies like this because they tamper with one's ability to follow a coherent story and come to a reliable conclusion about what happened in it.

But then again, it's got the word 'Psycho' in the title, so I guess all bets are off. Personally, twenty five dollars for a couple of drinks at a trendy New York City night club is about as psycho as I'll ever get. A controversial adaptation of the controversial Brett Easton Ellis novel, this is actually a brilliantly conceived movie that sheds new life on the disturbed world of the serial killer — and as such may be the most innovative "psycho" movie since, well, PSYCHO!

Filmly embedded in a hilariously '80s setting, this is both a thriller and a biting satire of the decade, with tons of subtle comedy and lashings of black humour to make the grisly subject matter a lot easier to digest. It's a wonderfully shot movie with plenty of memorable scenes, such as the infamous chainsaw murder, or the bit where Jared Leto gets an axe in the face.

The movie works so well thanks to the strong acting which really makes it entertaining. Christian Bale is outstanding, a wonderful and scary and believable performance as a emotionless psychopath who realises that his own murderous inclinations are evil but is unable to do anything about it. His performance never falters for a moment. Similarly, the supporting cast of quirky characters are excellent — Reese Witherspoon's dumb-as-nails bitch; Samantha Mathis's junkie; Willem Dafoe's weirdo detective, plus a vivid array of minor roles.

Although the movie is violent and pretty disgusting in places, it remains watchable and entertaining throughout thanks to the quirkily playful script and Bale's engaging performance. Definitely worth a look! It's the 's. Patrick Bateman Christian Bale is a privileged 27 year old Wall Street investment banker working for his father. He's a master of the universe type living in a pristine apartment.

He's sure that she's having an affair with Timothy Bryce Justin Theroux while he himself is having an affair with her best friend Courtney Rawlinson Samantha Mathis. On top of his materialistic vapid daily existence, he has bloodthirsty nights that gets more and more out of control. Director Mary Harron is doing a slightly surreal horror slash comedy.

The major problem is that I don't really care about anybody or anything in this movie. There are some witty moments like the business card oneupmanship scene. However I just couldn't bother with the annoying boorish selfish character. At some point, the movie started to bore me. He's not funny and the movie isn't really that funny either. It's not scary as a horror. There is no tension since I don't about him or his victims.

I just can't make myself care about this movie. Login Register. Loading, please wait. Quality: All p p p 3D. Year: All

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