Things started out fine, I suppose, except for the drunk construction worker at the bar where I was meeting a friend beforehand, who mumbled “fucking faggot” at me under his breath as I walked up to the place—which was also fine, really, because it was enough of a cliche to seem like it wasn’t actually happening and I hadn’t heard that one in a long time anyway—and walking into Sotheby’s was fine, too, because the iPadded publicists were friendly enough and the amped-up security wasn’t that aggressive, and I can’t honestly say where the trouble began because the show—for which Drake provided a soundtrack—was surprisingly fine as well, hung in a charming salon-style, and there were good Basquiats, but I was probably a little over-eager due to the fact that I’d been listening to Drake for several hours before and I heard he was going to be at the opening and I was genuinely excited to be at an event for the first time since possibly prom, which was also, for the record, fine I guess, and after a few drinks everything went quite dim and the last thing I remember is joining the phalanx of people trailing Drake as he walked through the exhibition as if there wasn’t an enormous cluster of admirers encircling him, and I was standing next to two friends, one who said, “He’s so huge,” meaning Drake’s actual physical size, which was true—Drake has a pretty large head in person, and everything about him was so perfectly manicured that every feature seemed exaggerated—and the other friend responded, “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” which probably wasn’t true, for a number of reasons, but especially because the most remarkable thing about the presence of Drake, in my mind, was how unremarkable the presence of Drake was, phalanx aside, and then the lights went off, if you will, and I came to at midnight in a French restaurant in the East Village, talking to someone I don’t particularly like about the importance of Miranda Lambert, of all things.
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