UPDATE: Naked Hitchhiker Freaky Deak

"Pitching a tent"

It has now been confirmed--Naked Hitchhiker Freaky Deak is the proud owner of a pay as you go phone! He finally bought a phone to stay in communicado with Dar. Deak just called Dar and asked her to move into his tent on the Vineyard. He said that the first time they were apart for a few minutes at the beach, it wasn't so bad. But now, since they are so insanely in love, the separation is killing him.

Wonder who will get the side of the bed, I mean sleeping bag, closest to the bathroom, I mean forest???

White Little Richie Freaky Deak (VOICEMAIL)

"Tutti Frutti, no booty"
Here's an exercise in visual deakalization. Think Little Richard but white with even more geometric facial hair, a few extra lbs, a fluffier Jheri curl and an even heavier helping of deakical freakiness. Less than a week ago after making the trek to Vermont to see a rather well known folk artist, we had a run in with the White Little Richie Freaky Deak.

Two minutes into the concert, we're approached by White Little Richie Deak, otherwise known as the opening act, who invites us to the VIP section. We agree to go: a) because we were having a hard time seeing and breathing over the unshowered Stevie Nicks's bird nests, and b) because we figured he had the 411 on the after party. But to quote the self-proclaimed architect of Rock N' Roll Mr. Little Richie, "Good Golly Miss Molly", we had no idea how high of creep on the deakical scale we had on our hands. Minutes upon entering VIP, he says to Dar, "Now I really know you're an angel. Our pinkies just touched on the banister and I felt a little piece of heaven."

Well fortunately we caught a break when Deak gets a call to go backstage. Without thinking we give him our number for the soul purpose of getting an invite to the after party.

And now without further ado, I present to you last night's voicemail from the White Little Richie Freaky Deak:

A-Wop-Bop-A-Loo-Lop A-Lop-Bam-Boo, all I gotta say it Eww-Eww-Eww...

UPDATE: Naked Hitchhiker Freaky Deak (TEXT)

"The stoner is a phoner"
Based on the area code and the green vernacular, it looks like the Naked Hitchhiker Freaky Deak just got a cell phone:

We'll corroborate that it's Hitchhiker Deak when he texts Dar "Hey bud", "Ur dope", or "Dank u".

UPDATE: Husband Freaky Deak (TEXT)

"There seems to be a wedge in our marriage..."
Husband Deak seems to be in denial about Dar and his impending divorce. The following texts have accumulated since Lake Deaky-Pasaki:

Doorman Freaky Deak

"Can I get the door...to your bedroom"

About ready to check my underwear drawer for fear the deplorable of a Doorman Deak has become one of the main consumers of my bloomers...

So a couple of days ago I was meeting my friends in the lobby of my building and a 40-something-year-old nerdy doorman I've never seen before approaches me and says, "Love your outfit, the color scheme totally matches your apartment. Those vibrant yellows and reds on your purse totally jive well with your cartoon sculpture and all of your wall decor."

Last I checked I don't live at the Aquarium of Deak where my life is a fishbowl. I immediately countered, "How do you know which one is my apartment?" He responded as if I was missing the obvious connection, "I was the one who let Comcast in last week, my name is Kevin."

Is there some technology I'm not aware of that transmits a telepathic signal of a resident's name and apartment number when they walk by? Unless I've been in a telecommunications holding pattern it seems to me that Doorman Freaky Deak was doing a driveby on my personal photos, most of which are in my bedroom.

Well the story doesn't end there. Yesterday I'm walking into my building and I see Doorman Freaky Deak a mile away so I opt for the revolving door to avoid a confrontation but of course he sees me and grabs my arm and the conversation goes as follows:

Doorman Deak: Lula, Lala, or is it Lela?
Me: No, my name is Mel.
Doorman Deak: No, I'm not talking about your name. I know your name silly. I'm talking about your doggy's name?
Me: I don't have a dog and last time I checked there was a strict policy against having dogs here. Did that change? (My mind was racing a million miles a second on what hue of red chenille upholstery I would buy for my new puppy's dog bed).
Doorman Deak: No, not your real doggy, that sculpture in your apartment, you know the cartoon one that echoes your bold color choices? I looked it over for awhile and it has a similar facial structure to a dog.
Me: Betty Boop?
Doorman Deak: Yes, I guess that's it.

I abruptly walked away. I could just see the conversation shifting to, "Cotton briefs, lace thongs, or latex g-strings? Well based on your palette, definitely latex g-strings."

I'm now considering putting a double bolt lock on my underwear drawer or jumping the hurdles and buying some not so sexy girdles.

Turkish Alex Freaky Deak (TEXT)

"Textually assaulted"

I'm in dire need of some Text-Trex, treatment for the Textual Eruption my phone just experienced:

Totally perplexed by the previous texts...

Backstory or lack thereof: In DC for the weekend and grabbed dinner/drinks with my friend Ashlee or Assel in Turkish I suppose??? last night at Old Ebbitt's when Turkish Alex Freaky Deak approached us saying that he was learning how to speak to American women and could use our guidance. It might be the Nation's Capital but who are we, the United Nations of Deak or the Ambassador to Deakiness? We not so politely declined but hours later upon our exit, Deak, accompanied by his friend, followed us down the street saying he had been waiting for us all night. His friend apologized on his behalf for his deakiness and said they weren't really friends, just acquaintances. We chatted with Acquaintance Deak for a quick minute. Feeling slightly sorry he even knew The Jerk of a Turk Deak, I gave him my number as we got in cab. End of story.

Currently trying to get rid of the T.T.D. (Textually Transmitted Disease) my phone is suffering from.