She is shouting to me from the slightly opened door of the bathroom. "Hey, boy…. give me something to wipe my ass with, I'm out of tp."

I'm tired and hungry and sick of hanging out at her crib. I shuffle over to the kitchen in hopes of paper towels, even though they clog the drain…nothing, just a naked cardboard tube.

"Come on, hurry!" she's louder this time. OK, there are some fast food bags over in the corner. Got to be a few napkins left…nope, nothing but crisped stale fries…mom…not bad.

"Listen queen Fatemah, there ain't a scrap of ass-friendly stuffs about…put it in the sink!"

Silence, then she says, "what about newspapers? New Times?"…. She always has a few lying around, left over from half-hearted attempts at job opportunities…. I encourage her to stick to her schemes and sugar daddies…a girl like her would never survive in a defined atmosphere.

"Sorry Fatty, I threw out all the Streets and New Times"….more pause.

"Ok, pitchka…find me an old magazine or something…I hate wiping my ass with my hand because the crap smell gets in your pores and your hand smells like ass for days. I don't want to smell that every time I toke…I can't take a shower with my hair like this…come on…. be creative, don't make me come out there with my jockies to my ankles."

Searching, searching, searching…bingo! Old magazines and wrecked paperbacks; there is a pile of them under her Brazilian Jeans. "How about those old books under the low riders in the corner closet? Da, there is something over there …look!"

I toss off the jeans, goddamn they are small. How can a girl fit her booty into one of them; I have tube sox with larger waists. On a scraping drag I pull the two crates over, one to sit on and the one with the potential tp substitute candidates. The first subject is an old issue of Giant Robot, I hand it to her through the gap in the door.

"Are you freakn' serious…no, dumbass…not this…this has the Steve Young interview…no, something else…"

My Bloody Valentine is playing in the background, I love that band…I just wish I knew what they were singing about. I go along with what I think are the lyrics, sifting the books and mags for something special." When I look at you, oh, I don't know what's real, once in a while and you make me laugh", yeah, somethin'sweet like that…Then, this small pink magazine with some French heading and an astrological symbol catches my eye. I hate astrology, I mean I guess it helped Alexander the Great or Hannibal win wars, but hell, my sign always has a lame prediction. Some crapola like save money or keep your house clean or things will look better after Mercury leaves your house of troubles. "Here what about this"….

Fatemah pushes the rag back through the gap, "Oh, no, not this I need this one…that's the Tchalas, the Haitian dream book…I use it to pick my numbers for the lottery"…There are only three possibles remaining, a paper rock mag with Andrew W.K. on the cover…she'll never go for that, she loves that guy…And contestants behind curtain number three, the last two possible tp subs just happen to be excellent choices, yes folks probably the most unreadable reads I ever tried to forcefeed myself on attempt to impress people with my well readness…Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra and even better, the worst gobbledygook ever written by a pretentious white guy-James Joyce's Ulysses. Without the slightest hesitation, I rip pages from the latter and hand her the soft wads.

"Now that's using your melon…why you Americans call that book the greatest I'll never know."

I can hear the disc changer turn at the end the cd, and surprisingly another group she likes that I like and can't understand a freak'n thing they're singin' about comes on…. StereoLab. Fatemah once told me they were sexy French Marxist in nature but, ahhh…whatever…everything with her is either Marxist or sexy or both. At the bottom of the pile there are some printouts; without spying their contents I push them through: "Hey Fatemah, here's some more for later."

The toilet flushes, "Hey hand me that bag that says YOYO on it, baby." The StereoLab is so groovy-loungy, I feel like I'm in a spacious '70s airport lobby. I reach over the draped clothes and push the bag through the gap. The bag has her new wave get-up for her show at Revolver. After she saw Peaches, her and a couple ex-riot girl friends pulled together this new wave band Sweetie; one of her Eurotrash patrons actually bought all the equipment and hired some friend of Gary Newman's to help write their songs. I told her that was cheating, she told me to shove off…Her exact description of what she asked for "Simple songs with sexy dirty words really…it turns me on."

I like it, it's 80s, it's danceable. The pile of print outs come back through the gap, "Hey remember what I always said about the West's real motives, back then in Kosovo, now in Afghanistan and Iraq…read this…humanitarian motives my fine ass, and its not just Bush."

At times her endless anti-west conspiracy theories were tiresome. I poke her with, "Wait, and don't tell me George Bush is full of shit?!

Calmly she replies, "Close. You know the saying GOT MILK? Yeah… More like GOT OIL.

By this time my attitude is changing, I'm falling out of the left into Anarchy. Fatemah the half-Serb turned me on to Michael Moore and off of Jello Biafra…. I have to give her credit, she spends her Meth binges well. When she is on that nasty powder she just wants to either delve into the deeps of the Internet or tinker with shit, sometimes up for days on candy and coffee. She is always handing me some barely published read or working on that chromified Kawasaki drag bike in the secret bedroom.

I gather over to the big leather couch, soak up the StereoLab and pretend to be in the TWA terminal waiting for my flight to Ulaanbaatar Mongolia to participate in the Naadam Games. The pile is fat, so my intentions are to only read the first and last parts, just to get a general feeling so I can be prepared for debate when she comes out in her super-roc New Wave uniform. The heading is from FreeRepublic.com, "a conservative news forum." Hmmm, I'm already apprehensive. The word conservative gives me a cramp.

THE USA WILL HIRE MILITARY BASES IN SERBIA

The American Administration wants to hire certain military bases and buildings for 99 years, including "Bondshell" KFOR base in Kosovo, Yugoslav Army's base on Kopaonik Mountain, a military airport near Sjenica and additional buildings on Pester plateau, well informed diplomatic sources of Brussels told "Beta" agency. According to these sources, the American administration informed Belgrade that it wanted " close cooperation of American Army and Yugoslav Army forces, especially in Kosovo and south Serbia." Pentagon and American Military leaders suggested, and State Department and White house accepted, that " America and Serbia sign a specific military agreement on 99-year use of the American Military base " Bondsteel" in Kosovo". Washington also wants to hire the radar base on Kopaonik Mountain, which the Yugoslav army equipped with British technology. Yugoslav military airport in Sjenica would be adapted for the landing of American and NATO heavy transporters. Diplomats of Brussels claim that Serb Deputy Prime Minister Nebojsa Covic, Yugoslav minister of foreign Affairs Goran Svilanovic, Yugoslav General Ninoslav Krstyic and police General Goran Radosavljevic were informed about the plan on military cooperation during their meeting with the commanders of American forces in Germany. According to the diplomatic sources of Brussels, Americans think that their army should remain in Kosovo and the Balkans until the situation in the region stabilizes and the entire region starts full cooperation with the European Union. BRUSSELS CONNECTS THE AMERICAN INITIATIVE WITH THE PLANS OF LEADING AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN OIL COMPANIES TO BUILD AN OIL PIPELINE THAT WOULD TAKE OIL FROM THE CASPIAN SEA THROUGH BULGARIA.

The news bulletin is followed by back and forth debate between opinionated jackasses from both sides of the fence{American vs. Serb}. I let out an eternal reply of "humph" and replace the sheets of paper in the crate. Then Fatemah pushes past me, looking so Bananarama, and drops this joke on me out of lip-glossed lips:

"Do you know the difference between toilet paper and my shower curtain?"

I reply, after hard thought, "Um, no."

"Do you know the difference between toilet paper and the towel?"

"OK. No."

Finally she comes with, "How about between toilet paper and my cat?"

I work my way back to the airport couch and scratch my scruff, anticipating her making me look bad.

OK, goddamn it, no-no-no, …what?"

She struts past with her fine tail and swagger to pull the monstrously gaudy Kawasaki from the kitchen, "Well muthafucker, you are never using my shitter."

"Eh?"…I didn't get it.

2B continued, same place, same time, next month.