Secret Pop

Aug 9, 2005

Catching up with missed luck.

Yesterday was the eighth of August. On past eighths of August, I have generally made mention of what a lucky day that is for the Chinese. I won't belabor the point.

I have been working altogether too much. My eyes are sore all day. Caffeine seems to have none of its usual potency. Every moment is a catalogue of ache. Even my beloved boozes are less appealing to me. I know they will make me sleepy and that I will lack the vigor to benefit from any of their more rewarding repercussions. It is a suckfest.

I was in New York for a few days last week. I stayed at the Dream Hotel. I would describe it, but I'm lazy and the spark is gone. I will post photos at some point. If I can find a free moment. The most noteworthy image I recall was riding up on the elevator and watching the doors open on floor after floor to display some artsy, impressionistic photo mural in cool blue hues and then arriving on the eighth floor to be greeted by a giant photo of a nude man running after himself. There were oranges on the pillows. But I had a room without a bath tub. So in order to try and get my mom's idea of my money's worth, I ate the oranges. Peeled 'em with my own hands and everything. It sounds crazy even to me.

It was so dreadfully hot and humid. Coming home to a hot and humid Los Angeles, I realize that I will probably never feel the need to complain about the heat here again. Even when it is its most uncomfortable. Even in my un-air-conditioned home. As hot and as humid as it ever gets, it's never like it was in New York these last two times I visited. Nights that never cool down. Air that smells of innards cooking in the bodies living about them. That filmy feeling on your skin and hair and teeth. All day long. I'm glad to be home. And if I ever end up living in New York, I will invest a great deal of money in air conditioning.

This is the third time I've been at a swanky hotel in Manhattan (and San Diego) when I was sent on a hotel blow dryer hunt. In each case I had to call down to the front desk to have them help me figure out where the blow dryer was stowed. At the W, it was in a little cloth sack in the closet. At the Marriott in San Diego, it was in a little cloth sack in the armoire. At the Dream Hotel, it was in a little cloth sack hanging from the back of the bathroom door. I even checked in the closet, hoping I'd discovered the new trend in blow dryer placement. But no. I had to call the front desk. They were nice enough. But I felt stupid just the same.

My teeth ache. I think I have been gritting them all day at work. And after an exhausting week of meetings and travel and work work work, I had to drive down to San Diego to perform, collect my dog, drive back up to Los Angeles to perform again, and then start the work week all over again with no greater an average of sleeping hours to my credit than before. I'll be dead by Christmas. I've been saying it for weeks. I have a lot of awesome belongings. I hope you get some of them, if that is your wish.

I don't know what else. My head hurts so much right now. Do we really need to be roasting Pamela Anderson? And if so, do we also need to be exploiting the ailing Kirk Douglas? He will always be Spartacus to me. And that sailor with a whale of a tale to tell. I don't want to see him working out his issues with his son on camera. This seems the height of vulgarity. Where's Steve Allen to object to things when you need him to?

I hate moths. And I keep having to prove it to them by murdering them and smearing their gross, powdery carcasses all over my walls. Why doesn't anyone ever take me at my word?

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