Please, let me keep this memory. Just this one.

I have been away for a while.

What I write and what I post and how often are a gauge of a great many things. Is it always that I can't be troubled to set the type? Is it always that I am so busy or that things are so wonderful that I can't be bothered to tell a tale about it? Is it always that I am so sad or so overwhelmed that I fear the making of a sentence will tip the scales in some disastrous way?

Sometimes it's just technical difficulties. I began this post, and my computer froze, with the first few paragraphs hidden from me on the screen. I had to recreate them from memory. And I wasn't really paying much attention when I started. I know it wasn't what you have just read. It probably wasn't anything like that. And not knowing what I have lost pains me. I embellish it in my unmemory, sure that it was precious and priceless and that it would have distinguished me if it had only lived. It's beginning to sound like to intellectual abortion. And if that is the metaphor, I guess I'm pro-life after all.

And then there's irony as a barrier.

I went and recreated this post again on my PowerBook, since my frozen G4 was still letting me see some portion of what I'd written. So I transcribed it anew into a Blogger post, and then I wrote more of what you have since read, and then I went to save it as a draft, and Blogger returned an error message. And when I went to reload, of course the post content was gone. And there was a notice that Blogger is unavailable due to planned maintenance. No one put it on my calendar, of course. And I get very cranky about things like this. But much of the time, when I'm writing anything longer than a sentence or two, I'm careful to copy the content to the clipboard before posting. It's a lesson hard-learned. And a conveniently un-numbered reason on a very long list of reasons why I shouldn't rely on Blogger to host my daily bullshit. Maybe one of these days I'll switch. I have nearly set myself up on several other services over the years. But these things are headache-ridden by nature. And I think my dance card is full up where headaches are concerned.

Anyway.

I was writing about why I write and about why I have not been. I think I started talking about how -- once I begin -- my brain enacts a digging process that unearths objects that I am not always in the mood to play with. Inevitably, even if I am just writing down something that struck me as funny, it stretches out its referential tentacles and grabs hold of memories I haven't replayed in a while, and the room fills with dust, and you sneeze and you cough, and that's a handy excuse for why there are tears in your eyes. You big stupid crybaby.

Is there any way to work a hedge maze metaphor into this?

So, I write about what I've done and where I've been. I keep track of unusual things that happen to me. It seems there is never a shortage of stories to tell. Ask anyone who ever talks to me. I'm so far behind even in that vein now. I went to Disneyland. I saw some movies. I went to some shows. I made some promises. I had conversations with strangers that needed to be written down. I overheard people saying things that made me cluck in my head. But I haven't been sitting down to the computer as much. I haven't been doing so many things that are part of my routine. And there is a list of things to do so long that it should have been started on trackfeed paper. Because everyone knows the list items on the back side never get gotten to. "Above the fold" is serious business. And you can't make a "welcome home" or "happy retirement" banner out of standard letter stock.

It is not just sentiment or sadness. I don't think it's those things. I don't think it's only those things. Things are unruly for me at the moment. I sleep strangely. Dream often. Remember much of it. Populate my dreaming with enough real people and places that I begin to get confused about what did and didn't happen. I need input but am lazy about it. I play a record and listen to side A. Over and over and over. There may as well not be a side B. I can't be troubled to find out. I need context, but the last time I drew myself a map, I was playing an Infocom game, and you had to do that if you were going to have any idea where you were.

I feel stuck, in a way. Repeating things. Unable to believe so much of this calendar year has already inched past me. It seemed as if I was holding my breath all the while. Sure that everything was going to be different or better or more. Mindful of patterns. Scornful of them.

But the wireframe inside the model is not these things. The story in my gut is not the list of places I've been. It's just that sometimes it's too gloopy and roiling and visceral to be shared with the casual passerby. It would be like holding your hand out to a stranger on the street and saying, "Look. I'm bleeding." In what universe would that stranger do anything but grimace and hurry past you. It's polite to keep the blood and guts to yourself. It's also easier to take less notice of them if you aren't constantly showing them off. I can hide them away. Tidy them up. Put a nice wide belt over them. They're coming back, you know. Wide belts. Diane Keaton might have managed to wait out fashion for one full iteration. She's a patient lady.

I, by contrast, am not a patient lady. I am impatient. To a fault. I am eager and urgent and frustrated and flailing. I am stumbling over one hurdle with my eye on the next one and the next one and the next one. Which is partly why I knock so many of them over or trip and end up needing a bandage. I'm always looking so far ahead, I can't see the sidewalk buckling upward at my feet. I eat it a good lot of the time. And I worry about how many people saw me fall and whether they are laughing about it.

But when I allow myself to live in memories, I get soaked. And I'm far less aerodynamic. I get a lot less done.

That being said, I live in my memories a lot. Or at least lately I get caught by them. Caught off-guard. Caught up. Caught adverb of choice. I post pictures because they take the place of telling the truth about anything. And because it keeps things moving and marks my progress and lets me believe that I'm still doing things even when I feel as if I'm not. And I post anecdotes when I think of them and when there's nothing else to say.

The other things -- the secrets, the shameful admissions, the ouchy -- I try not to speak of them at all. And when I do, I try to dress them up pretty. And I try to disclaim them by being self-aware and judgmental about them. But the truth is, I'm not always better than the thing I claim to hate. And I'm nearly never proud or pretty or perfect. I'm more often amazed at the end of a night when I have managed to smile and be smiled at and to have then gotten home without having embarrassed or condemned myself in some fatal fashion. Every day is an obstacle course. And I hate those. Even back in summer camp or P.E. What a stupid waste of time. Running through tires. Swinging over puddles. Climbing walls that don't bar anything from anything. These are not the obstacles I ever face. These are not the challenges I need to best. These are not skills I need.

I keep a lot to myself. I know that sounds like lying. Given how much I don't keep to myself. But I do. I tuck a lot away. And I let a lot go. And I wonder what people think when they read what I write. And I am surprised by how many of them mistakenly think I am writing about them. And I am always at least minimally aware of the possibility that I am writing about them after all.

"Please, let me keep this memory. Just this one." That was said by Joel in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It really meant something to me. I know that feeling.

Fucking Blogger. Fucking Mac. Fucking everything. If you are reading this, it is a miracle. And you should check and see if there is a likeness of Jesus burned onto your bed sheets.

Regardless of its relative worth...

...a picture is easier to post.

Eight Days a Week

Well, five to start.

So, yeah. I got a haircut. A long-awaited haircut. And you might notice that my hair is blonde. Very, very blonde. There are pictures from each day. Want proof?

Wednesday

This is day one of the latest version of me. I went to The Improv that night. And then to Jerry's. And then to a parking spot on Melrose where politics were discussed at length.

Thursday

I met my friend Mark for lunch at the Farmer's Market, and then we went to see Kung Fu Hustle (I don't recommend it, but I will go into further detail later). I went to The Improv Thursday night, too. And that's plenty.





Friday

I met my friend Steve for coffee before he headed back home to San Diego. We worked together in biotech ages ago. I sucked down an iced coffee and felt my head swimming over the fact that we've known each other for thirteen years. I find it hard to believe I've known anything for thirteen years.

Later, after a drink at H.M.S. Bounty, I went to The Wiltern to see the live staged reading of an episode of The Family Guy. I have some complaints about that experience.





Saturday

After workshop, Jessie and I went to Birds and had a few drinks and a few onion rings, and we made a few friends whose names we will surely never recall.



Sunday

Alex is in town. I picked him up at his hotel, and we had a coffee that I wish could have lasted forever. But he has a busy rock and roll life to live. And I don't. After I dropped him off, I went for a walk with Martín that ended in a visit to 7-11. Then I went for a run. Then I went and visited Bryn. Then we went to Fred 62. Then I came home. And I can hear that it's late enough to be the beginning of someone's day. And I sort of feel sorry for that someone.

for the curious

for the workers

I think I just bought some books at a communist yard sale.

also from the vault

My dad is working on the papers for the close of the purchase of their new house. When he was telling me about all the details involved, I said, "Wow. Buying a house is a full-time job." He said, "I didn't work this hard on the paperwork after the fire." And I said, "Well, burning a house down is a full-time job, too." And he said, "It doesn't take very long to do it, though." And we laughed.

Yerba Maté tastes like a lawn. I know it's good for you, but it tastes like drinking the bottom of someone's shoe.

Beulah answers the phone when Justin calls her. Then she yells, "Is this George Bush again? *groans* He called yesterday!" Then Beulah explains to me: "It's this recording, and it goes, 'Hi. This is George W. Bush.' Last time he called, I handed the phone to Dad and said, 'Dad, it's for you. It's the President.'" He listened for a while and then hung up.

Beulah's wish: "There are times when I'm driving down the freeway and I think, 'I wish I could just get hit by a semi, and as long as it didn't fuck up my face, I could totally be lying in a hospital for a year watching TV!'"

Adam's wisdom: The rule in Internet dating is round down. And if you can't see his arms in the picture, he doesn't have any.

I'm reading about the Ents in Two Towers. And there is discussion of a younger Ent called Bregalad, or Quickbeam. The Hobbits notice how he laughs at things. "He laughed if the sun came out from behind a cloud, he laughed if they came upon a stream or spring: then he stooped and splashed his feet and head with water; he laughed sometimes at some sound or whisper in the trees." I started to think that when you use very grand language, as Tolkien does, you can describe someone in this manner and he sounds jolly and perhaps endearingly peculiar. But in reality, these are the symptoms of a crackpot.

Sarah and I were discussing what makes a wigger. I maintain that, just because a guy has soul when he sings, that doesn't automatically make him a wigger. Eminem? Wigger. Daryl Hall? Not a wigger. There are a number of criteria that must be satisfied, but the guy definitely has to talk like a black guy -- and I don't mean Frederick Douglass.

When I look some sort of arcane word up in the dictionary and it has a simple one-word definition, I sort of get cranky and wonder why even have that other word. "Fructuous" was the Merriam-Webster word of the day. And I opened the email to find it defined as "fruitful." It didn't make my day.

Beulah is getting her music news from a ringtones web site. Times have changed.

New Year's Day 2003

After the movie today (Antwone Fisher), Gary was in the bathroom and said the population at the urinals was prevailingly black, but a lone white guy was standing there wearing a shirt that said "Flags of the Confederacy." And Gary was just waiting for mayhem to break loose. I said, "It's a good thing they don't know what 'confederacy' means." Everyone laughed. In horror. Racism is funny.

Wanderlust

Everything is beginning to smell like airplanes to me. I want to go somewhere. More than ever.

I live in the movies.

I'm no big fan of Vanessa Paradis. Not just because she landed Johnny Depp. But sure that's part of it. However, I am a fan of French cinema. Because I am a pretentious jerk. And because much of the time it is good. And also because you can't always tell that a movie isn't good when you're hearing the acting in another language. Especially a language as lovely as French. Which I studied for a number of years but never had much cause to use.

I recently saw The Girl on the Bridge, and I scribbled down a little bit of dialogue from it. Because I loved the sound of it.

Adèle (Vanessa Paradis): I'm not used to it yet.
Gabor (Daniel Auteuil): To what?
Adèle: Saying no. I'll have to control myself. It's like quitting smoking. The first week is the toughest. Then you get over it.
Gabor: Try chewing gum.
Adèle: Somehow I can't stop. Boys attract me like beautiful clothes. I always want to try them on. Am I abnormal?
Gabor: Not especially. You just need some guidance.
Adèle: Where to? Wherever I go, I seem to take the wrong road.
Gabor: There's no wrong road. Only bad company. I'll make you into somebody. Do you know what that means? Somebody who laughs and takes life with ease. You'll be Cinderella, Farrah, Diba, Queen of the Night.
Adèle: What'll I do in the day?
[he smiles]

Gabor is a knife-thrower who needs a human target for his show. Adèle is a girl he finds on a bridge contemplating suicide. Why can't more movies be about such things and fewer of them have Sandra Bullock in them?

I'm just here to observe.

This Adrien Brody Diet Coke commercial is a mystery to me. We see Adrien Brody sitting on the front steps of a New York apartment building, opening a can of Diet Coke and letting a series of weird pearly bubbles out into the atmosphere. Offscreen, we hear a youthful voice call out, "Brody!" Then, post-sip, we see him stepping large down the sidewalk in a throwback suit with a questionably exposed chest, drinking his coke and apparently lighting the town on fire. But wait. Since when did Oscar®-winning actor Adrien Brody (in shiny white sneakers, no less -- not cool) become a symbol of the funk lifestyle? And are we meant to believe he drives a hydraulic-enhanced sedan? Or that anyone he knows does? The theme of the advert is "Bounce." But I'm lost. Thirsty. And maybe I'll drink a Diet Coke because of that. But lost just the same.

And what's going on with the Internet these days? Have you noticed how it keeps not working?

Prayerfully

I was watching The Daily Show coverage of Prince Charles' latest wedding, and they played a clip of the Archbishop of Canterbury leading the congregation in a penitent prayer that included these phrases: "We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness. We do earnestly repent and are utterly sorry for these our misdoings. The remembrance of them is grievous unto us. The burden of them is intolerable. Have mercy upon us." And it reminded me so much of that scene in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life when Michael Palin leads the school in the prayer that goes: "O Lord. Ooh, You are so big. So absolutely huge. Gosh, we're all really impressed down here, I can tell You. Forgive us, O Lord, for this, our dreadful toadying and barefaced flattery. But You are so strong and, well, just so super. Amen." The intersection of these moments makes me want to do two things. (1) Join the Church of England. (2) Marry Michael Palin in it.

Cherry Blossom Girl

Sunday afternoon, I drove down to San Diego to celebrate Beulah's birthday (which is officially April the twelfth) with my family. We had dinner at Rei do Gado, and I ate very little, which angered my mom, who doesn't believe in paying for all-you-can-eat meals when you don't intend to eat all you can. I gave Beulah a Louis Vuitton handbag. The style with the Murakami cherry blossoms in the print. She was in love with me. Which was my plan.

I also took some pictures before I got there. No one is surprised by this, I am assuming.

The weight of days is dreadful.

I made a collage. I like it. That is usually a sign of something. In this case, restlessness and disappointment. In many cases, the cocktail is the same.

I knew there would not be much sleeping in this weekend. Out-of-town visitors. Plans. Concert tickets. In being social, I sat down to more meals than I would have preferred. I wish the ritual was less filling. I don't really enjoy eating the way I pretend I used to. It's not that I don't like it. It's that I am not willing to look forward to it. Or to look back on it with any sense of congratulation. I am doing my best to not always be talking about this when I'm sharing a meal with someone. Because it is decidedly a drag.

Krissy and Pamela and I went to the Bounty on Friday night. There was a carnival looming on the other side of the street. It made parking such a game of cat and mouse. I remember going to a carnival last year with Kevin and being talked into getting on the Zipper and only wanting to die for several hours afterwards. I just wanted to go in and take pictures with my Lomo. Instead, I told myself that a ride wouldn't hurt. But then after being shaken around like so many dry beans inside a rattle -- having the contents of my handbag rained down on me as our doomed cage spun and rotated on far too many geometric axes -- we came to a stop, and I have never wanted more fervently to throw up. Coins and salt packets littered the inside of our gondola (I don't know what else to call it, but that's not what it was), and my mother, in the retelling, was angry at me for not having picked them all up.

We did not go to the carnival on Friday night.

After the bar closed, we went back to my place and had more drinks. The whiskeys I drank didn't seem particularly stiff to me. These days, I only seem to notice their potency when I have a cut on my lip or something that will alert me that that stinging sensation is because I am drinking something that has disinfectant properties. Krissy did not finish the martini I made her. Pamela did not finish her beer. But I drank two whiskeys and stayed up several hours past them. And when I was sitting in bed, finishing a chapter of my latest book challenge, I noticed that the vitamins I had just taken -- in an effort to stave off a relapse of under the weather -- seemed to still be lodged in my throat. And it was when I was washing them down with the last few sips of my whiskey that I wondered if this might be a portrait of "a problem." But since I talk about it, I assume that makes it okay. People who have a problem keep it under wraps. At least that's the rule I made up to keep me in the safe column.

I only slept for a couple of hours -- and by "couple" I mean two -- before getting up and showering and taking my guests to Nick's for the earliest weekend breakfast I have ever had there. The owner was awfully nice to me for some reason. He told me I was his favorite girl that day. I told him I would write that in my diary. He asked if I still keep one of those. I said, "Of course." And I refrained from adding that, these days, it's called a "blog." Because that would have been obnoxious. The use of punctuation and emphatic typeface on the Nick's menu leads me to believe that no one who works there is on the Internet. This is not based on science. But I have a hunch.

After breakfast, we went back to my place and watched Fathom and made fun of it, and then I had to go to workshop, which was godawful too warm and not as beneficial as in previous sessions. Then I changed out of my jeans and into a skirt (in my car) and met Dean at The Echo, for he had bought tickets for us to see Deerhoof there weeks and weeks ago. Which is a mercy, because the line of hopeful last-minute ticket purchasers was daunting, and we had the luxury of not having to wait in it.

We walked over to The Brite Spot to have eggs and coffee, ran into a friend of Dean's whom I met at that pirate-themed birthday party of a few months back but who was apparently too far gone on that night to have remembered me, then we walked to a gas station, because I was out of gum and also Red Bull. And I was glad it was finally dark, as we walked back to the club. Though it was windy and a bit too cool out, and the several suggestive entrées made from passing cars and trucks only made me more aware of the length of my skirt. I was surprised by the turnout at the show. Bands have a way of blowing up these days. I wish them well and am happy for their success, but I can't help but feel resentful of all the trendy fashion plates, skulking around in their miasma of unconcern. This is particularly the case at an all ages show in Echo Park. What a study in hairdos and cropped denim. It was like high school dances at the teen center when I lived in Japan. Only back then, we were dressing like it was the '80s because it actually was the '80s, albeit the very last part of them. And we had much more access to booze.



Dean was ever so gracious, given the dampening of my mood that happened by way of my friends. There are certain friends of mine -- I wonder why they would ever want to spend time with me when it seems that so many of our outings involve me not being myself. Or me apologizing for how tired I am or for how unenthusiastic I seem. There are certainly the Martíns of the world, who have seen me at every point on the spectrum and can be expected to remember that I am not always morose or exhausted or underwhelming. But the friends who see so much less of me -- well, I worry that I provide them with much less statistical proof that I am any fun at all. I have been called "intriguing" three or four times in recent weeks. I'm beginning to wonder if it means what I think it means.

I was so frustrated on my drive home that I was sure I was about to cry. And I wanted to slap myself in the face and scold myself for being so stupid and fragile. But it all felt a bit too Catherine Deneuve. Or Annette Bening in American Beauty. I have my excuses. I've been working so hard. And the aftermath of my car accident is perpetually stressful. And my father found a lump on his collarbone a couple of weeks ago, and how can I not be thinking about that and how it felt to be in junior high school and finding out my dad had cancer and that they did not expect him to live to see me graduate. Of course, he did live to see me graduate. And well on into excess of the five years they had projected his remaining lifespan to be. But I think I am always thinking about that feeling I had when we went to kiss my dad goodnight before his surgery and my mom reminded us that people don't always wake up from surgery. Even minor surgery. (Thanks, mom.) And my dad laughed like we were silly when he saw all his girls were crying.

Jessie called me while I was driving. The plans we had made had fallen through, too. And by "fallen through," I mean that she never called me. And when I called her, she was already on her way to calling it a night. Maybe she felt bad about that. I don't know. She called me back and suggested we go to a dive bar. But the songs in my head made me sad. And that is reason enough for me to have returned home and pitched myself headlong into an art project. Yet another instance when my life looks to have been written for the Scholastic Book Order.

I've come to learn that the only way to avoid disappointment is to purge yourself of expectation. But it's really hard to set your clock by that. Only angels know unrelieved joy -- or are able to stand it. And my belief in angels is specious, at best.

Something Fishy

I think I may be off seafood. I used to really love it. I was raised to believe it is a bigger treat than other things. There is a funny story about my mom going shopping with one of her Chinese friends (an eccentric lady who treated her dog like a person and who wore white kid gloves while driving -- and was also terrified of ever driving on the freeway and would only ever be able to get on and stay in the lane she had entered until it inevitably forced her to exit again), and her friend came bounding over with cans in hand saying, "Lili! Lili! Seafood Banquet! Seafood Banquet!" Apparently, there was a sale on cans of Seafood Banquet, and it was my mom's unfortunate task to have to break it to her friend that Seafood Banquet was cat food.

So I suppose it is a cliché part of being Chinese, but my family has a vast appreciation for seafood. Particularly shellfish. Particularly anything that requires a lot of work to get at and may possibly squirt fishy-smelling liquid all over your new green dress. I guess I used to be on board with this. But as I've gotten older, I've chewed enough aquatic things and had to buckle down to swallow them that I wonder if it's worth all the hype. I bought some baby octopus salad at Whole Foods on Tuesday, and I was really looking forward to eating it. It reminded me of restaurants in Naples where I would see people eating that dish, leisurely on their lengthy Italian lunch breaks, and I would want to go pick off their plates. I love tentacles and squiddy stuff. I really do. But for some reason, this particular batch was just fishy-tasting enough and the texture was mushy enough in places that I started thinking about bulging head globs and brain matter and gushy guts, and I could barely swallow what was in my mouth. I ended up shoving a good portion of it down the drain. And I had to wash twice to get the fish smell off my hands. I'll still eat sushi any day of the week. But I feel as if the field is narrowing. And it concerns me, because that used to be the opposite trend in my maturation. My tastes have only broadened as I've gotten older. To include spicy foods that were once not tolerable to me and cheesy things whose stink once put me off and meat so rare you wouldn't be remiss in telling it a bedtime story. I would be ashamed to tell my mother that I'm beginning to lose my affection for les fruits de mer. But I suppose it's possible she'll shrug and say, "More for me." Nothing will put a restaurant out of business faster than serving all-you-can-eat shellfish in a town where my mother lives or works. She is unstoppable. She will be responsible for the extinction of shrimp one day. Mark my words.

This post will be entirely about Paul F. Tompkins.
So I've missed a few opportunities to sing praises and register grievances as they pertain to the career of Paul F. Tompkins, the object of my (at times creepy) affection. And I am in the business of making good. This is for you, Paul. As promised.
The Paul F. Tompkins Show
This most recent Largo show was the three-year anniversary of The Paul F. Tompkins Show. Well-attended, as usual. Surprising and pleasing. I'm remiss in not having written about it sooner, as my ability to recount all of the glorious details seems to grow more and more brittle in direct proportion to the number of Ketel One sodas I've had. And this week, I've had a few of them. Fortunately I have a notebook. My notes included the following:
Paul -- cute. Colin Hay -- also cute, but in a different way.
Derek Hughes did a magic act with needles coming out of his mouth. And at the end of it, instead of the fourteen needles that should have come out, he counted eleven. And when Paul came back out on stage, he said, "He's got four needles in his mouth!" And someone in the audience said, "Three!" And I wanted to find them and smack them. Hard. I hate the devotion to correctness. Much as I am a slave to it myself. When it comes to comedy, I just wish people would get over the idea that paying close attention and being right about things matter when they just don't hold a candle to being smart and funny. And Paul is extraordinarily smart and funny. And that boob in the audience clearly is neither. So they should shut up. And that's my point.
The big gang's-all-here number was Donovan's Atlantis, which delighted me all to crazy. Although I have to admit that when it pops up in my iPod mix, I tend to skip through the spoken-word preamble. Beulah once played this song for her English class, but I can't remember the circumstances. Was she teaching them about preambles? I don't remember. Anyway, it's a good and groovy song. And there were humorous addenda that made it all the more enjoyable. The surprise "I am the god of hell fire!" ending wasn't included. But I'm glad. That part always scares me. And anyway I have since learned that that isn't even part of the Donovan song and is my just desserts for downloading files illegally, even though I own a best of Donovan CD and am apparently just too lazy to find it and rip its contents to my computer. But the real point is, why would they have sung that at the show, since it would have been completely misplaced and inaccurate, unless they had gotten all their rehearsal cues from listening to Atlantis on my iPod, and -- really -- how dare they.
I was talking to Wayne Federman after the show, and Ileanna Douglas came over and began talking to him, too. And I think I offended her with my snipey assertion that Quentin Tarantino is unfortunately bottom-heavy for a dude. She said that the cocktail I was holding was to be my last. But fortunately, she doesn't actually have any authority at Largo. Because it was not my last at all. I was afraid that I had offended Ileanna with my assessment of Tarantino's thickness in the thighs, but in the end, I feel protected by the truth in my opinion. I'm not saying he's not talented or anything. I'm just saying he should walk it off a little. You know?
Sam Levine was a perfect creepy nightgown girl from The Ring. And Ben Acker was wearing a very festive sweater. Paul called it "Christmas." I said "après ski." You say tomato...
This Business of Kelsey Grammer presents "The Sketch Show"
So Paul has been appearing on Fox on Sunday nights on this show. And I don't think it's a very good show, and I usually find myself laughing at the parts I feel were probably the most painful and humiliating to Paul, and that's not nice of me, and I know it. But there are also sketches that have had their moments, and I have laughed at them. So there's that. But I will say to the world what I have said more privately to others: Kelsey Grammer has no business even being on television. Unless it's in the role that America most loves him in -- that of Sideshow Bob. He is absolutely terrible. And I can't understand the marketing message in saying that ONLY Kelsey Grammer could have brought sketch comedy to America's Sunday nights like this. What is his claim on sketch comedy in the first place? What character has he ever created that wasn't Frasier? It's nearly as bad as watching Drew Carey when he actually participates in the improv games on Whose Line. He is horrible. And the most painful part of it is that he apparently has no idea about it. And I feel the same way about Kelsey Grammer, who is perhaps so cushioned in the bosom of fawning hangers-on and porn spouses that he doesn't realize how embarrassing he is. The first week the show aired, Kelsey was in a sketch where he was singing. And the fact that he didn't realize that his horrifically poor singing skills were the joke is what is saddest of all. Pee yew. His singing leaves much to be desired.
So the show is sort of like Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In. Just a series of very obvious punchlines, strung together with jaunty interstitials of cast members mugging on a colorful sound stage. I think that's what would prevent me from ever being on a show. I could never do those interstitials. If they said, "Okay, Mary, now just dance around a little," I would have to say, "I'm sorry but you're going to have to fuck off now," because I really can't do that. Maybe my self-consciousness is unmerited. Maybe it implies a dignity that I have not actually earned. But I just can't imagine being able to do it, and that's why I'm no actor. Even those bits in That '70s Show with the cast members bouncing on trampolines feel impossible to me, who could never ever be so free. To Paul's credit, he never seems to do anything terribly goony. Martín applauded how well Paul made the "C" look heavy when the cast members are moving the letters in the show's title around. And I'll second that. The most important thing you can take from watching the show is that Paul's gift is in maintaining so much of his dignity, even when they're making him dress like a transient. Which, for the record, was actually really enjoyable to watch.
My mother watched the show this past weekend, and she recounted to me a scene where Paul plays a director on a porno set, and Lee Mack (the British dude) is an actor who keeps harshing the vibe. She described it to me like this: "He was the director and the other one kept RUINING it. He would say, 'Action!' and the guy was so STUPID! He did it wrong every time! Why was he even in the movie?" She was clearly ruffled by it. Never really understanding that that was the idea. I think my mom is the sort of person who will watch a historical film and be angry when the protagonist dies, even if that's the way it occurred historically. She always reasons that it's someone's fault and that the ending could be prevented. But who am I kidding -- she can't stay awake for a historical film in its entirety. The fact that she was able to watch a single forty-five second sketch from end to end is an accomplishment in itself.
Paul really needs to have his own show. A real show where he gets to be in charge and stuff. Think of the joy it would bring to people's lives. Think of the number of sickly and ailing children who would suddenly find new color in their cheeks. Think of the number of televised hours we would be spared having to see Kelsey Grammer in something. Development executives of the world, get it together, will you?
Oh, and Kelsey Grammer's head is shaped like a bean.
The M Spot
Monday night, Paul did stand-up in Jason Nash's Monday night M Bar show, and it was the superlativest. First rate and all that. When he mentioned his affection for blooper shows, I fondly recalled how my family used to record Life's Most Embarrassing Moments -- the progenitor to TV's Bloopers and Practical Jokes and any number of other blooper shows -- and replay the tapes for everyone who ever came over to our house for dinner. That's right. My parents would invite some couple from work or church or the principal of our school and his wife over for dinner, and my mom would cook some amazing dinner, and after the meal, everyone would retire to the living room with coffee and dessert, and someone would inevitably cue up the Betamax with Life's Most Embarrassing Moments, commercial interruptions and all. I don't remember anyone making faces that would imply they thought it was gauche of us. But who says they would have known better. We didn't really mingle with a very sophisticated set in my recollection. We recorded all of those shows when they came on the television. I think there was Life's Most Embarrassing Moments I, II, III, and IV. But the first one was the best. Just like Faces of Death.
Paul was also my hero for wanting to be played on with only the coolest of music. "Do you have any Bowie? How about Blondie? Pixies? How about some Wave of Mutilation?" What a dreamboat, huh? In a recent Largo show, he said that he does not care for Pink Floyd, and I felt a bit sad about that. But then I remembered: Who cares? It's fun to argue with people about what is and isn't good, but in the end, what difference does it make? After the show, Michelle Biloon and Wayne Federman and I were talking, and somehow Wayne tried to say that The Shawshank Redemption isn't a good film. And -- much as I adore Wayne -- this is just poppycock. But it's poppycock that in no way impacts my affection for him, so no harm done. I was very flattered when Wayne let me look through his book of notes. I would never let anyone look in my stupid notebook with its many pages of nearly illegible and always embarrassing drivel. He must be very secure. And well he should be. He has wonderful penmanship.
I guess I feel I haven't said enough about Paul, so I will refer you to a Channel 101 pilot he was in that is one of my favorite things ever. It's here.
Tomorrow night, I will be seeing Paul again in Ben Acker's program. But I will speak of that separately so that Ben can feel huge and important.

Everybody Loves Lipitor

Tuesday night, Jessie went with me to the Comedy Death Ray at M Bar. While we were driving over, my mom called me and laid on me the most amazing, outlandish, cocakamamy anti-smoking rap I have ever heard. I'm pretty sure it's going in my stand-up act. If only I had it on tape.

Jessie and I had some time to kill before the show, and I suggested a few places we could go to get something to eat. For some reason, it was Winchell's that lit Jessie's fire. So we walked over, and -- because you really can't go to a doughnut joint and buy just one doughnut apparently -- Jessie ended up buying a dozen. This was the inventory:

4 glazed raised
2 cinnamon rolls (twenty-five cents extra)
1 glazed with sprinkles
1 crumb
1 old-fashioned
1 chocolate raised
1 chocolate bar
2 chocolate frosted cake with sprinkles
1 glazed twist

I only ate one doughnut. And even that was more than I wanted. Jessie felt buyer's remorse almost immediately. There's something embarrassing about carrying around a box of doughnuts. There's no arguing that.

The clientele in the Winchell's all had some form of dried paint on them. And a rag of some sort tucked into their utility belts or waistbands. One big guy saw us sitting down and said, "Are you guys going to eat all those?" Defiantly, I said, "Maybe." And he smilingly said, "That's not very healthy." And I placed a hash mark in my mental tally of incidents that prove how absolutely devoid of game most dudes are. I guess I can't have expected more. We were in a Winchell's after all.

I ran into plenty of friends at the show. And because it was about to be Tammy's birthday, I invited her and Jeff to go to Canter's with me so I could buy her something. Which turned out to be carrot cake. Jessie had to go home, so I drove her back to her car before meeting Tammy and Jeff. And I was not terribly surprised when I got home and went to walk Audrey to find that Jessie had left a naked glazed raised doughnut (pretty much the only kind I eat) sitting on top of the empty Arrowhead bottle at my front door. What's even more amazing is that I ate it. In my defense, I knew how long it had been sitting there (not very), and it wasn't visibly marked with any sort of fecal matter, but still. What state of mind could I have possibly been in? Mary Forrest does not eat food found on the street. I didn't eat the whole thing. But if you ever wanted to poison me, apparently all you'd have to do is leave something I like on my doorstep and make sure I find it when I've still got a little bit of a buzz on.

Guerilla Marketing

There is a restaurant on Westwood Boulevard called Matteo's "A little taste of Hoboken." What?

I only thought a little about this, driving past, because my focus was quickly shifted to the girl and boy dressed as Lady Liberty and Uncle Sam, respectively, trying to draw passersby's attention to the tax preparer's office they were standing in front of. They both looked miserable. It was a warm day. But I was also stumped by the illogic of the scale of them. They were approximately the same height. And I don't know in what universe that would ever be true. Wasn't Uncle Sam designed to be un ordinary-sized guy who just happens to have a very menacing finger to point? Whereas Lady Liberty is this huge statue and you can climb inside her head, and she won't feel it or nothing. I would have stopped to take a picture, but I had places to be. And they really did look embarrassed and unhappy, and I felt sorry for them. I hope they weren't doing it for free. Like if the tax preparer's office is owned by their parents or something. How much would that suck.

I'm not really a fan of this method of advertising. Getting a guy to dress up as a sandwich to dance around and wave me in to the Subway. I can't think of anything I have ever not wanted that -- when faced with a gigantic anthropomorphized human-filled version of it -- I suddenly found myself irresistibly drawn to purchase. Not sandwiches. Not cell phones. Not diamonds. Not real estate. But then I did buy a vacuum-sealed bag of clams at Von's on Sunday night on an impulse. Never underestimate the value of a smartly-placed endcap.

Street Approval

The other night, I was leaving 7-11 with some beer and a couple of guys in an SUV pulled up beside me at the light and gave me the thumbs up. I returned it. I'm friendly. But I didn't know what it meant. Did they see me buying Guinness and think that was awesome of me? Are they applauding our mutual disregard for our national dependence on Mid-East petroleum resources? Is it my tank top again? Los Angeles friendships are easily made, but why can't they be infused with more meaning?

proximity

On Sunday night, I wasn't feeling so hot, and Martín called because he was on his way to Von's and wanted to know if I needed anything. That's a sweetheart if I ever knew of one. I actually did have a short list, but a few of the items were embarrassing enough that I didn't feel I could ask him to pick them up on my behalf. I'm squeamish. I'm embarrassed to talk about toilet paper, for instance. So, I suggested that I go with him. And I threw on a pair of jeans and scrambled out to meet him, and we trawled the aisles of the supermarket, cracking wise and loading up. And it was fun in the way that the most ordinary and uninteresting things can be when you're with someone awesome. Martín and I are thick as thieves. Best pals. History-bound. I can say more to him than to nearly anyone else in the world. And he cheers me on in ways that nearly no one else bothers to. Being able to hit the piggly wiggly (and, yes, I am arbitrarily genericizing the term) with him at the drop of a sickly hat is part of the heaven of having him live right down the block from me. Not since childhood have I had close friends living so nearby. It's the best thing.

I spent much of the past few days gathering photography quotes for the bid I had to submit. I was on the phone a lot. I was canvassing e-mails. I felt like an office worm all over again. And I grew weary of it almost immediately. I guess I'm spoiled. It doesn't take much in the way of obligation for me to start feeling cagey and overwhelmed. This morning, I had to meet with my attorney in Pacific Palisades, and that required getting up early and accounting for traffic and being prepared with my paperwork and everything. All of the sticky tendrils of responsible living. It's the same feeling of the willies I get when wading in the ocean and feeling the kelp crawling all over my submerged parts. I'd rather be eaten by a shark.

The drive to the Palisades did school me on how short a drive it actually is. I've lived here for a few years now, and I've still never been to Malibu, for instance. And if I hadn't been so sorry and tired and overburdened, I might have pulled over on the beach somewhere and sat and tried to write. There were people out jogging and doing things. And the Santa Monica pier was busy existing to the south. I felt like I was a tourist for a minute or so. And then I started wondering about real estate prices, and the magical spell was broken.

Sleepless sleeping. That's mostly all I've gotten. The sort of sleeping that ends in wakeful restlessness. The sort of waking that reminds you that you may live the rest of your life feeling taxed and bent. The sort of getting up that makes you wonder why you waste the time laying down at all. I see it in my face. And no amount of sparkling conversation will mask it, as far as I'm concerned. Days like these make me want to go shopping for eye shadow in bright colors.

It was a very good year.

Tonight, Tammy had her birthday party at El Conquistador in Silverlake. I showed up late and apologetic, but dinner hadn't even been ordered yet, so I suppose no harm was done. Jeff, whose finger was injured yesterday in an incident whose description is impossible not to grimace through, was not complaining at all, which is amazing. I remember getting stitches in my fingers a few years back, and I was leveled by it. I don't think he was even on painkillers. What a stud.

Blaine and Vera were fine company. We talked about Bukowski and Carrot Top and reggae music and how fat Robert Smith didn't used to be and how Vera is in an Ima Robot video and how I'm a gigantic fan of Ima Robot.

Tammy was green and glistening in a fancy sequined top. Fancy like mermaid scales. And if she hadn't had to work in the morning, I suppose she'd have been amenable to having more drinks bought for her. But weekend birthdays only happen every seven or so years. In my favor is the fact that, this year, I'm having one. Happy birthday, Tammy. When it's my birthday, you will have no excuse not to get plastered. And as we were born in the same year, I suggest that Tammy continues to celebrate her birthday until mine comes around. I am an avid supporter of the birthday s-t-r-e-t-c-h.

Lives getting lived on the four oh five

When I was driving down to San Diego on Easter Sunday on an hour's sleep with a constant cough drop in my mouth and a constant churchly song in my throat, I observed a car in the high-occupancy vehicle lane with a lady in coke-can rollers and bathrobe in the passenger seat doing her make-up while the gent I assumed to be her husband drove them both on to Easter. She was applying an eyelash curler to her lashes and making that stretched down face that ladies make when such things are in the works. I just recently watched How to Murder Your Wife -- a DVD selection I made when working on my latest bid because I like Jack Lemmon and Terry-Thomas and the woman in that movie (Virna Lisi) is very pretty -- and there is the archetypal representation of the disillusionment that sets in when a man sees the disparity between the sexpot he fell in love with and the houseclothed frump sleeping in his post-matrimonial bed. Anyway, I thought of the guy driving that car in the H.O.V. lane when I was watching the movie. I figured he might have had a touch of that same disillusionment when his wife shuffled into the car with her big pink bathrobe on and her make-up bag in her lap. This is a role I have never ever played. I have never left the house in that state. And I can't imagine a scenario in which I would. It is my hope that I will keep the world fooled at all times. And all of it. Those who ever see me in my most natural state are generally part of a unique inner circle. It takes some doing to get in. And it's really no prize to do so. I encourage you to remain on the periphery, from whose vantagepoint my lipstick is nearly always perfect. I believe in the illusion. I serve it. And if you are none the wiser, I have earned my keep.

things fade

things which are not yet and things which are no more

The music in The Shawshank Redemption makes me want to cry. Make an ill-advised phone call. Travel back in time. Sit somewhere in the past for longer than time ever took. I am vulnerable to reminders. I am an easy lock for picking.

I don't know what it is that's so appealing about looking back. Ruminations on the loss of innocence. A desire for a simpler time. A simpler self. It all sounds like so much chit chat in a retirement home. I never called it a "horseless carriage." There isn't so much of my history to miss. But then my card catalog seems larger because I file things without abbreviating. I hang onto stunning amounts of detail. I record to stultifying levels. People pretend to admire it. But I'm sure -- when they go off and have their day -- they shake their heads and wonder how a girl manages to have so much time on her hands and motor in her fingers. I am not like other people. In certain very specific ways. My teeth are buzzing with meaning.

I made excuses for my dramatic entrance. And my lateness. I put a smile on it. I was nervous. Not myself. I wanted these secrets and kept them close. Even now, I stop myself from speaking them. As long as I'm not speaking, I can hear my footsteps. I can hear the grit in the sidewalk. I can keep from stammering out of breath and feeling suddenly foolish. I can save myself the memory of shame.

When I go places we've gone together, I kiss the ghosts of kisses there.

have a cheery disposition

if you want this choice position

Robot Innards

I had to wake up early this morning for my MRI appointment. I have this weird thing now that -- when I have to wake up at any time at all -- I am usually overcome by sleepless anxiety and am unable to really fall into any sort of restful slumber until it's an hour or so before I have to be up. This is only exacerbated by the terrible pain in my throat and soft palate. So again I got nearly no sleep, and I awakened hours earlier than I had to, and the pain was nearly unbearable, and there was nothing to do but to wait for it to be time for me to go to Beverly Hills and get my insides photographed.

The technician, Leonard, was terribly nice. He guessed at my lineage. Wondered if I was half-Japanese. I said half-Chinese. He thought that made sense. And he said, "And you're not married?" And I said, "No." And he said, "Well, someone out there is crazy." And I know he meant it as a compliment, but I didn't really know what to say. Sometimes, this compliment gets paid me -- this sort of idea that my not having yet been snatched up by some matrimonial assailant is a breach of all the universal laws -- and I fidget a bit and wonder what the right thing to say might be. I can say, "Well, I bet on a few bad horses." Or I can say, "I enjoy being single." Or I can say, "I've murdered a number of potential candidates. Shh! -- don't tell, right?" It doesn't really matter what I say. In the end, I'm just left to wonder if that guy is right -- if I somehow missed the window and slammed smack into a wall instead. I'm not thinking about marriage at all at the moment. I'm not thinking about serious relationships or ring sizes or tropical honeymoons or even weekend getaways for that matter. And I suppose there's a risk that I'll suddenly perk up at age fifty and go, "Oops. Maybe it's too late for all this." But I can't see so far ahead. I'm the sort of driver that pays a great deal of attention to the car or two right in front of her, making quick decisions about when to back off, when to gun it, and when to change lanes entirely. Looking too far ahead is a good way to rear-end the car in front of you. And bumpers these days aren't what they used to be. Nor are metaphors. Sure, I like the idea of being somebody's honeybun. I like the idea of handholding and sweet nothings and buying a lamp or an area rug. But I'm also fine with these things happening to the girl in the movie I'm watching at any given time.

It turns out that Leonard also went to high school in Yokosuka years and years before I did. And that he lived in Uraga, just like I did. Coincidences abound. But that was not sufficient distraction from the ordeal of being scooted into that big coffin tube for a half hour while a hideous symphony of grinding noises made relaxation impossible. I'm not claustrophobic, but once you get in that little cylinder and you know that you're not SUPPOSED to move, all of a sudden your nose itches or your shoulders ache or you feel like yawning. My body rebels against such restraints. It was all I could do to remain still and quiet for that whole time. I really just wanted to yell and kick and fuss. But I didn't. And that's how I know I'm at least partly a grown-up.

I was in enough pain that I skipped my workshop this afternoon. But Tom had already bought my ticket to Sin City, so I went with him and Tammy and Jeff to see the much-awaited cinematization. I really liked it, but I was also drinking whiskey most of the time. Of course, I was sober enough to tsk tsk Brittany Murphy's very noticeable pimple and also her groanworthy dialogue. But I really did not require any shushing. I only laughed where I was supposed to. And I write very quietly when I am taking notes. Maybe I'll write something more cogent later. Maybe not. A lot gets away from me these days. But not the fact that so many men in Hollywood look like K.D. Lang. First, I pointed out Jake Gyllenhaal. Years ago. He was the first. And everyone I pointed it out to could never not see him intoning their favorite hit from the Absolute Torch and Twang album. And let's be honest: it's always Constant Craving. But now, I've got to add Clive Owen to the roster. I saw a photo of him in a recent Entertainment Weekly, and I thought, "Lord. Him, too." And it's only further confirmed in Sin City, as is his lack of affinity for the American dialect. But he's terribly attractive and everything. So I guess it's no big deal. It's apparently a cinch to forgive a great many faults when a person is pretty as a picture. Even if the picture they are as pretty as happens to be of K.D. Lang. But seriously, I'm not trying to date K.D. Lang or anything. Seriously. I'm not. Really. Let it go already.

After the flick, we went to Good Luck Bar and had a few drinks, and I drove home with music I am fond of buzzing in my ears. I intend to spend the bulk of my Sunday in some recuperative state. But I fail at this more often than anyone could imagine.

Ye Olde Rustic Pick-Up Joint

Last night, I caught my pal Eddie Pepitone's one man show at the Fake Gallery and then went over to the Rustic with J. Keith Van Straaten to have drinks and, in his case, a quesadilla. I got there before he did, and I bought myself a drink. I don't usually walk into bars by myself. I'm not afraid to. But there is a barrage of approach I am often looking to avoid. And there, right before my eyes, I saw two dudes gesturing towards me explicitly as if to say, "Are you going after that one? Oh, it's me? Okay. I'm on it." So the one comes over and says, "Are you here alone?" And I said, "I'm waiting for a friend." And he said, "Your boyfriend?" And I said, "A friend." And he says, "So is it okay if I hit on you then?" And I said, "Wow. That's the most directly I've ever heard that put." And then he told me his name was Joshua, and he asked where I live. Eventually J. Keith walked in, and I was relieved to be able to excuse myself. When we walked into the dining room, another fellow grabbed my hand and told me I had beautiful ankles. But he was distinctly looking at my tank top. And I figured maybe I'd better put my jacket on. It was oddly warm yesterday, but apparently a gal like me can't just enjoy the cool reprieve of a wifebeater without having a lot of beer breath aspirated in her face in the form of a how-do-you-do. Later, waiting for the restroom, another fellow asked if he could go before me. And I was thrown, wondering if the men's room could possibly be more crowded than the ladies' room. He made more chitchat and then plainly said, "I was just looking for an excuse to talk to you." And then it was my turn for the restroom. And I wondered if this section of Hillhurst is really just a strange pocket of foreign in an otherwise too-good-for-me landscape of L.A. poseurs and ladies with parts much lovelier than mine.

I drove home too early for my tastes. But there was only pain and the absence of sleep for me, so what difference does it make.

the price of a dream

I submitted another bid. I've been working on it off and on for a couple of weeks. But, as usual, the bulk of the work gets done between moon and morning. I sent it off just a handful of minutes ago. I'm not unproud of what I came up with. But I'm also resigned. I don't know if I'll get the work. I don't know what I'm worth. I don't know if they will look at my estimate and laugh or ball it up angrily and throw it on the floor. And then pour something insulting on it. I really don't want to think about it. I'm just glad to be done. And in a way I feel cheated. Because I really had it in me -- in the past twenty-four hours especially -- to be terrribly self-indulgent creatively. I wanted to write and write and write. I had ideas all over the place. And my dining table is still cluttered with the art supplies Beulah and I were using when she came to visit. I'm sure I would have had a painting or two in me yesterday. But if I had let myself lean into that urge, all of my paintings would have been about guilt and procrastination. And I much prefer them when they are about my more girlish anxieties. It's just a shame I couldn't have spent the day spilling my guts somehow. I know I had a lot of product in me. And now, I can barely complete a sentence without being convinced it wasn't worth typing.

My teeth all feel sore. And there has been a persistent and unholy pain in my soft palate for several days now. It started as a sore throat, but then it completely changed its mind. If it's another sinus infection, I may just off myself. That last one was a study in torment. I'm not so terribly stoic, but I like to give the appearance of steely resolve and stalwart unflappability on most days. And, well, I failed at it.

I've canceled an appointment for this morning so that I can maybe get some sleep. I'll bet I will dream of hurting.

march marches on

i can't believe when i look at certain pictures that they were taken two years ago. i try to push the endpoints together like a squeezebox, compressing the accordion-like timeline, racing past faces that take on funhouse mirror form. remembering the temperature of certain days. spilled coffee. time killers. old movies in dank theaters. waiting. wanting. resisting. relenting. nightlight ghosts and shadows on the rumpled folds of sweaty sheets. patient wakefulness in an effort to stop time. like when maybe i used to believe that if you stayed awake all the way through, dawn would never come. pretending to have projects in separate rooms. being sensible and making excuses. cloudy. windy. grey. bare shoulders. steep slopes.

i can see my blank expression, and i know exactly what i meant.

april. come it will.

this shirt is dry clean only

I am very sad about Mitch Hedberg.

She smells like sunshine.

Beulah came and visited last weekend. She is a teacher, so "spring break" actually means something to her. It was the first instance in as long as I can remember that we got to spend that much time together, just the two of us. We did all sorts of things. Shopped*. Sang. Mixed cocktails**. Made paintings and collages. Ate a swanky dinner at The Dresden***. Cruised the rain-spattered streets of Los Angeles rocking the iPod in the wee hours, from Los Feliz to Santa Monica to Downtown and back home again****. Went on a picnic***** and took a bazillion pictures. It was on our picnic that Beulah and I made special note of our special brand of sisterhood. It's ours alone, and no one can touch it.

Hyperlinks and photos may mysteriously append this and other recent posts.

*It was raining at The Grove, and I forgot to bring an umbrella, so I bought us one. One of those push-button ones. And I nearly took Beulah's eye out a few times. But she was a good sport. They did not have my Fekkai texturizing balm at Nordstrom, so we were good little girls and did not buy a single pair of shoes. We shared a sandwich at the Farmer's Market and noticed a cute boy working at the toffee shop. We may have looked over in his direction a few too many times. Conspicuous. No game. But in the end, we had to face the fact that, as cute as he was, he works in a toffee shop. He was quickly forgotten.
**I made Beulah an apple martini. In a shaker and for real and everything. It was Jameson for me. A few of them. In a fancy crystal glass. Because I am pretty fancy when you come right down to it.
***Beulah doesn't like just standing in a crowded bar. Who does? I will do it, but I agree that a nice unjostled place to sit beats all. And I'd never eaten at the Dresden, so we decided to have dinner. A pair of fine steaks it was. And a good-looking Hispanic waiter whose name we never got. I defaulted to Jose. Beulah defaulted to Elian. And Tom showed up somewhere mid-steak, in time to help us with dessert and to say hello to a leaving Craig Anton. Beulah and I saw Jeff Small walking somewhere with what appeared to be take-away something or other. I didn't call out to him, but I mentioned it to him last night at the Bounty, and Brendon (his brother) made merciless fun of him. And I laughed and was grateful to have a sister of my own who would easily have made the same sort of fun of me, given half the chance.
****I can't tell you how much we laughed. But I can tell you about the time we were stopped at a traffic light and a bookish fellow to our right was making friendly eyes at us as Beulah jammed to Bitch Betta Have My Money. She encouraged me to wave at him. You know. Make his day. She then said he looked like an Ira. She was right. When we hit Downtown, I took us through that awesome 2nd Street tunnel and all over the place. Through Chinatown and Little Tokyo. We reminisced about visiting the New Otani Hotel on a Saturday many years ago, after driving up from San Diego to see a Francis Bacon/Helen Frankenthaler exhibit at LACMA. We had no idea back then. No idea whatever.
*****We packed lovely sandwiches and quesadillas and pickles and Pocky and soda pop and beer and potato chips and grape tomatoes, and we ate in the sunshine like kings. We were taking pictures of ourselves lying down on a straw mat when I felt a nuzzling in the back of my hair. It was a cute little four month-old corgi puppy named Buttercup. We made instant best friends and took her picture. And I'm sure we would have stolen her at gunpoint if (a) we had had a gun in our picnic duffel bag and (b) her mommy hadn't been so awfully nice, too. It was the best picnic in the history of picnics. And it could only have been made better if we had gone on a three-legged race with just the two of us. We ate so well there was certainly no room for the sundae and malted we had at Mel's later that night. But who's counting.

Dead Shot Dan

Carbon in Culver City is a nice little dive that plays movies without sound on screens that turn everything red. When I arrived there a couple of weeks ago, there was a tape of Buster Keaton movies playing. I wrote down the following lines.

Gentlemen, I have completed the clay model of my masterpiece.

Let's murder him first, and then kill him.

I took photographs of the screen. But dagblasted auto-focusing technology keeps you from ever taking a photo at the precise second you are hoping for. It's never more plain to me how valuable clairvoyance would be than when I miss a photograph. I don't need to see very far into the future. Two or three seconds is all I ask. And I promise I would never use it for gambling purposes.

"It's the way of the future."

The night of my accident, I was driving home from The Arclight, where I had gone to see The Aviator. I took copious, scribbly notes, but I never really did much with them.

Entering the cinema after drinks in the bar, I was displeased to only catch the tail end of the Sin City trailer. This won't be the first time I announced my looking-forwardness at the risk of one day sounding like a great fool. Especially with these much-anticipated, Comic-Con genre productions, it's so hard to not look a heel when the flickering begins for real. But I don't want to allow myself to be so lacking in courage as to not be willing to say I HOPE something will be good. That seems ridiculously cautious. I don't think anyone is investing on the basis of my movie whims, so I feel mostly safe in saying my fingers are crossed without fear of sending us into a recession.

I scribbled a note about the film being "so Scorsese sensualist." Firstly, I'm not a big Martin Scorsese fan. I actually consider him to be sort of a comic book filmmaker. Only, instead of taking on the superhero and science fiction genres, he prefers to tackle historical epics with the tools of the comic book trade. I remember a film writing teacher of mine pointing out the way, in The Color of Money, Scorsese manages to turn a billiards game into an action sequence, and that has always stuck with me. I suppose there's nothing wrong with this -- the assignment of overly inflated value to mundane moments. Spielberg was known for the manipulative emotional roller coaster he took his viewers on. To categorize these as criticisms implies that the only good film is a documentary. But then, when it comes to a biopic, I guess I just think that more documentarian sensibilities are called for.

The bizarre colorized look of the first half of the film seemed like such an unnecessary device. With sets and costumes and all manner of production design reminding us that this story takes place in the past, I think the unsaturated blues and jaundiced fleshtones are heavyhanded overkill. And they reminded me of the early days of colorization technology, when there was such a furor over Ted Turner's decision to colorize so many of the old black and white classics in his vault. That was back when Cheers was still on the air. Good golly.

I do not think Cate Blanchett deserved an Oscar for that performance. No, sir. I think Martin Short could have done as truthful a caricature, frankly. And perhaps with more feminine facial features. I like Cate Blanchett plenty, but this performance was no reason to throw a parade. I had just been watching Desk Set earlier that day while getting dressed, and I think it's a shame how overparodied Katharine Hepburn's legacy has become. She was a wonderful actress with distinct -- but not ridiculous -- elocution. Cate Blanchett reduced her to mannishness and unreliable diphthong play. It's a shame.

I really can't decipher much else of what I wrote. But my memory persists in certain areas. Like I thought that Leonardo di Caprio gave a remarkable performance. And I was surprised by it. Because the clips I had seen on various awards shows and television spots did not convince me that he deserved the nominations he got. But seeing the role in its entirety was another matter. He really did an outstanding job. I only wish the film had done him justice. Because in the end, you're still left with the exact same agenda as with nearly any other historically-based Scorsese film: now, you've got to go to the library or the Internet and find what happened. For a film that was intended to tell so much about the life of Howard Hughes, it really told surprisingly little. And there were far too many unanswered questions by the time the credits rolled. I would even have settled for a paragraph or two in epilogue, letting me know what happened to all the key characters. Like they did in Can't Hardly Wait.

"I can't go on denying the world my extra-greatness."
I have fallen extraordinarily behind in my written upkeep. Sure, I have excuses. Passable ones, even. But it occurs to me that just buckling down and writing something is better than all the notetaking in the world. And where notetaking is concerned, there has been a mountain of it lately.
My car is totaled. I will have to buy a new one. I'm not happy about it. I'm not sure how everything will resolve itself. This one drunk driver is costing me so much in money and time and effort and angst. Not to mention the persisting symptoms of nerve damage. I have not had to wear a neck brace or anything, but I have also not had my MRI yet. That should be an adventure. I don't think I'm claustrophobic, but when the orthopedic surgeon's nurse asked if I was, it gave me pause. I'm curious what it will be like to be conveyed into the belly of a big robot like that. I have a feeling it will be even more embarrassing than X-ray photography.
I was also asked if I have any metal in my body. And I was slightly disappointed to have to report that I do not.
I still think about headlights coming at me from time to time. Sometimes it makes me feel like I'm going to cry when I talk about it. And the occasional conversation with a friend will remind me that if I had eaten it that night, it's likely that many people would never have found out. They don't know enough of my close friends or family. It wouldn't make the news. There would be no blog updates. Just silence. I imagine a few people would assume I just turned into a rude bitch. All uppity and too good for them. Well, Los Angeles has a way.
I think I will be catching up in bursts rather than in one gigantic post. I have a lot of headline ideas to exploit.
This post began as a draft weeks ago. When I felt it necessary to note that "Move Along Home" is really one of the worst episodes of Deep Space Nine. It's a shame. I guess they can't all be gold. But still. And I don't know why, but Tri-Ominos is a funny reference. Without fail.
Like I said. They can't all be gold.

The eggs have it.

one short hour of sleep
nearly no voice for singing
the light is the same

Just give me one chance to feature you in sunshine.

Chord Theory
I instant message a lot these days.
I also send lengthy emails.
And I make a good part of my living writing.
I feel as if I'm starting to type like a jazz pianist. Sliding my fingers over the keys with some artsy flourishes. Finding the punctuation while slipping out of position. I don't always type perfectly. An extra key here and there. A missing character from time to time. That's what makes it seem like jazz. I am not that big a fan of jazz. And I am even smaller a fan of typographical errors.
The Wearing of the Green that I Did Not Do
I went to La Poubelle last night for Arthur's birthday. Jessie came and met me after dinner. We had a fine time. The Casting Office was far more crowded than it was the last time I was there, which was the night of the first of the 2004 presidential debates. I guess that's understandable. Saint Patrick's Day is a bit more of a draw in that respect.
Boys were very nice last night. And sometimes overly nice. And sometimes downright inappropriate. I can't think of a setting when reaching down a girl's skirt to see what sort of underthings she has on is acceptable. Nor can I think of a setting when one would expect that to happen. So when that happened to me last night, I was surprised.
And when I got stuck with the dinner tab, I was also surprised. That was my least favorite thing about the night.
What I did like, though, was meeting a lot of interesting people and spending time with Jessie and being treated nicely by nearly everyone. And when Jessie and I went to Pink's, Jessie made mention of the fact that I seem to get a special extra-nice brand of treatment there. That they are nicer to me than to other people apparently. And I don't know if it's true, but it's flattering if it is. Even if niceness comes in the form of hot dogs, it's welcome.
Beautiful on the Inside
Here's something. I was at the orthopedic surgeon's office yesterday, and they took some x-rays of my spine. When the doctor and I were looking at them, I noticed something peculiar: I was embarrassed and self-conscious. I was embarrassed to have someone look at my skeleton in front of me. My rather nice-looking young doctor said, "What do you think?" And I said, without making eye contact with him, "I don't know. I think I feel ashamed." He laughed. And so did I. But it was totally that nervous laughter that you hope will distract everyone from how stupid you feel. He assured me that my neck looked perfectly normal (And, yes, I did note that he did not say, "You have the neck of a supermodel.") and that I had nothing to worry about. When I told Martín about it over salads at California Pizza Kitchen (where we received the poorest service in the history of trendy pizza joints), he said -- in the voice I guess he uses to approximate me, "My skeleton is fat." And I said, "Exactly!" That's exactly how I felt. I felt like this doctor would surely look at these x-ray photographs and see something unappealing in them. That he would think I was unattractive or stupid or a jerk or a loser. Or fat. Where in the world would THAT come from*? I am -- at times -- more neurotic than even I like to admit.
*And, obviously, this comes from my mother.
I have to schedule an MRI to determine if the pain I am feeling in my neck and shoulders and arm is anything serious. I am in a bit more pain today than I was yesterday and a bit more than the day before. It especially hurts to turn my head left and right when I'm driving and am in need of visual reassurances. It seems to be progressively hurting more. And that's hardly a source of encouragement.
But I'm only listening to Duran Duran in my rental car, and that has made me feel like a million bucks so far.
Coincidentally, I ran into Alex, one of the other drivers whose car was smashed up by the drunk driver who hit us last weekend, at The Casting Office. The world is startlingly small. And disconcertingly frequented by auto smash-ups. When I told Beulah that I had spoken to an attorney, she started singing Easy Street to me (from the film Annie). And that led to her singing nearly every song in the soundtrack to me at different points in our conversation. I joined in on a few of them. We're perfect for each other, that Beulah and me. Scary and perfect.
Belly Button
I'm all over the place today. I have lost a little bit of my focus since the accident. And I've been having dreams with lots of blood in them. And not sleeping well in general. And it's raining out. And my limbs are cold. And Kiss Me, Stupid is on the television, and I hate Kim Novak. The accent she does in the movie reminds me of just so much community theater. Which reminds me that it's raining.

on the road again

but not necessarily in just-can't-wait mode

Real niggas recognize the realness.

Gizoogle is a site that translates the text content of other sites into gangsta speak. Here, for instance, is a tranzliation of my blizzog.

My favorite line so far: "And sometizzles I cracka why all this practice has not mizzle me a betta typist."

"No time for worry 'cause we're on the roam again."

I did not mean to get the car I got. I tried to get them to give me a Camry or something. But car after car was already rented or had the engine check light on or was just plain not available. And I ended up driving off in a Jeep Laredo. Black with tinted windows. Like I'm a drug dealer. Or in the FBI. It's not the car I wanted, but it's better than no car at all. Better by far. and I drove it to Hollywood with the music playing good and loud, and I parallel parked it like a champ. A champ with the propensity to overcorrect.

I used to always notice when it was the Ides of March. I used to always think wryly to myself, "Yup. It figures." Even if nothing bad was happening. I buy calendars now, but only because I like what they're about. My current one is another Edward Gorey-themed desk diary. Just like last year's. But I don't really write in it very regularly. I don't sit at a desk much. I don't carry a briefcase. I don't keep track with the same fervor I used to. That's something I've noticed.

And I don't know if I will be bummed about it later. If I suddenly find myself back on the keeping-track kick. I used to keep a diary of a sordid sort. A tally book basically. And I was dedicated to keeping it up so that one day -- perhaps on my death bed -- I would be able to say, "The number is 'x,'" "x" being the number that it would be at that time. But then I was laid off from a job, and my routine was jangled. The routine of going into the office each day and penning a tally mark or two into that notebook. When I was unemployed and staying at home, I didn't keep up the practice. And all of a sudden, it was a few weeks later and there was no way to be certain that I would be able to recall the tally accurately. And a few months later, when I was in a frenzy of throwing things away to prepare for a changing-up of the living situation, I rashly tossed that spiral notebook into the makeshift dustbin, believing that it no longer served a purpose. And maybe believing that I was only ever going to be with the same one person, so what different did it make what our number was? We were way up there by that point. But now, years later, I occasionally remember that notebook and wonder what could have possessed me to throw it away. It was not important or lovely or useful, really, but it was something I'd had for so long, and it had years' worth of fingerprints and changed pens and fraying edges and bent spirals. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I believe that such time-tells eventually bring an inanimate object to life. And that makes me feel remorse for having chucked an object that had been with me for so much of my memory-making. It is not the only time a human being was likely sorry for having discarded something upon having misread its value. And perhaps not the only time that the act of discarding proved irrevocable.

I don't think I would even have noticed that it was March 15 if I hadn't seen it in the blog entry interface. I think when people tell you that time passes faster as you get older, they don't realize that it's because you slowly stop bothering to keep track of it. Movies seem short when you sleep through them, too.

I was surprised I was able to get it into my garage with such a big, black car. And I think it's time for a road trip.

Powder Burns and Ballistics Expertise
They say there is no catching up. Not on sleep. And maybe not on anything else. The further you get from the point of entry, the more sketchy the details become. So there's no hope for recapturing any of it. Sometimes this is the best you can do. And the "you" in that sentence is me.
Monday
Jessie is doing the Lottery shows at Improv Olympic. I went with Stacey to see her perform. Afterwards, we had a few drinks, stopped in at the Velvet Margarita, then went to the 101 Coffee Shop for whatever it was we had. For me, it was onion rings. They're great there. But I seldom hate myself more than when I eat anything. This is something that has become plain to me over time. There is never anything I eat that I don't end up thinking, "I didn't need that," about, once eaten. I think I'm convinced, in much the same way that I sometimes think you can live forever if you just decide to and really try, that eating is something we do out of weakness. I guess I secretly believe that you don't have to eat. Ever. Because whenever I do, I am disappointed in myself. It's weird.
We ran into Neil Flynn at the I.O., and I said hello and reminded him that he read a spec script for me last year, and he was very nice. Ewan MacIntosh (Keith from The Office) was in the house. Either to see the Armando show or Adsit and Pasquesi. I didn't say anything to him. Mostly because I would just end up telling him that he is sitting there in the scene when my favorite line is said, but it isn't him saying it, even though it's to have been his character who wrote it at first. It's the bit that ends in, "And under weaknesses, you've put 'eczema.'" Top notch. I love that scene. But telling him so would have done neither of us any good. Anyway, he's not as tall as I thought, which leads me to believe that everyone else in that show is terribly short.
I also ran into Jon Huck at the I.O. that night. Which was coincidental, as I had received his announcement about a party he was throwing on Thursday, and I had just emailed him to ask him if it would be weird for me to come, since we haven't yet met in person. And no sooner had he assured me that no such weirdness would be possible than we nearly collided with each other in the foyer of the I.O. Perfect.
Tuesday
Martín and I went to see the Doug Benson Interruption at M Bar. I enjoyed that. And we ran into Wayne Federman there, and that's always pleasing. I accused Wayne later that night of having left without saying goodbye, and he proved me wrong. And that led to a long chat about all sorts of things including a great joke of Milton Berle's at the expense of Fred Waring and a joke I inadvertently made up, inspired by mention of The Ray Conniff Singers. I know. That all sounds terribly old.
Wednesday
Tom and I went to see The Idiots, which I've been meaning to do for a while now. Brendon Small sat next to us for the first part of the show in order to do a bit from the audience that was funny and good. (Penn and) Teller was in the audience, too. But he was just there to watch. Tom introduced me to Kristen Herman. She is pretty, and she liked my shoes.
Tom and I had a few drinks at Good Luck Bar, which smelled shockingly of beer in the entrance area. And Tom hypothesized about what it would be like if Prince's Cream was my theme song, playing every time I entered a room, as it did at one point when I was returning from the bathroom.
A woman came over and asked each of us if we wanted to dance. She seemed to ask everyone in the room. And the one guy who accepted her offer looked like Heinrich Himmler in a baggy suit, and he started dancing it up crazy-like. His dance style was sort of rave-inspired. A sort of James Brown-ian footwork thing combined with arms straight at his sides the entire time. You just have no idea how weird it looked. And the girl who had wanted to dance just stood back and watched for a while.
Thursday
I went to Jon Huck's party at Casita del Campo in Silverlake. What a turnout. Tom met me there. And later Dean joined us. And Michelle tried to make it but got lost. So after everything, Dean and I met her at the 101 Coffee Shop, where I had onion rings again, and I think I've decided I no longer need to have them ever again. I am like that with my passions sometimes. Don't be thrown by it. I am fickle after a fashion.
They were giving away free quesadillas at the Casita. We enjoyed them. And I really wanted to bum a cigarette off of Jerry Minor, but I was concerned that it might look as if I was hitting on him. And this entire transaction in my brain made me take note that Los Angeles is apparently turning me into a smoker. And made me resolve to put my cigarettes in my handbag before leaving the house next time.
Friday
Tom and I went to see Wayne Federman in this Un-Cabaret "Say the Word" thing at the Skirball Center. An icky place to have to go at 8 P.M. on a Friday night, to be sure. But it was worth the schlep.
I think I would have wanted to go out and have a grand time afterwards, but I was so drained from the week -- the days of which had consisted of me getting a lot of work done and completing (at long last) my submission for Nickelodeon, something I had been sort of dreading for weeks and which I was nearly set to just completely fuck off about. But I didn't fuck off. I got it done and in and over with. And I was amazed that I managed to, all things considered.
I was also submitting writing samples for a radio sketch show that I might like to write for, so it's hardly surprising that I was bled dry like only certain turnips can be by the time Friday night was coming to a close. Tom and I stopped off in West L.A. and got Chinese food, and he was pleased to learn he's been wrong all along about which year of the whatever he was. Those January and February birthdays have to be careful -- the lunar calendar is all complicated and shit.
Saturday
I had workshop at 3. I parked in Hollywood at a meter with an L.A. D.O.T. hood over it and a sign reading that it was a temporary tow away, except for Saturday and Sunday. And I couldn't understand why no one was parking at these temporarily FREE meters. I was positive that I wouldn't get towed, given the signage, but I still hesitated. Such creatures of pack behavior are we. As much of an elitist as I often am, it did take me a few seconds to convince myself that, just because no one else in Los Angeles had yet figured out that it was safe to park here, that doesn't mean it isn't. Sure enough, when I returned to my car at 6, it was just where I left it. And I was sort of sorry I didn't have some big night of pub crawling planned. It's always slightly a shame to have to pull out of a sweet spot.
Dean and I had already had plans to see a movie, so I called him and we met up at the Arclight. And we saw The Aviator, and after that I had the car accident, which I wrote about in the previous post.
Once I got home, I was never really able to settle down. I thought about taking an Ambien, but I worried that it was already too late. I ended up not going into my bedroom until about 5 a.m. And I was awake until about 8:30 and then up at 10:18. So not much rest so far. And no naps either. I've been frazzled and shaky all day. Sort of like being high on something. Not quite in my skin.
And I woke up with some pain in my neck and back. And that has only gotten progressively worse. It's not excruciating or anything. Dull and nagging. And progressively worse, is the only part I worry about. I am tempted to roll my neck and crack it all back into place, but I'm also worried about doing that. I don't want to be found dead and paralyzed before I've had a chance to tidy up a bit.
I had a weird spate of dreaming in what little time I slept. I told a few people the details. Beulah wanted me to write it all down. She laughed at a lot of it. Maybe because she was featured. She laughed the hardest when I told her that this guy broke her little finger clean off. I was surprised by her reaction. I am even writing jokes in my dreams. And I'm sleeping shallowly enough to wake and write them down. It's a strange feeling. Sometimes I feel as if I am just always, always awake.
And sometimes I wonder why all this practice has not made me a better typist.
Sunday (That's today!)
I received many, many phone calls from concerned friends and family and offers for help if I should need it. And that was all very comforting. Even though I did eventually reach a point of not wanting to answer the phone, because the story is not interesting to tell for me anymore. I will need to do some embellishing the next time if I'm to enjoy it at all.
And in keeping with the theme of the importance of appreciating and preserving life, I watched Short Circuit. And it reminded me of a time a couple of years ago when I was on a date with a guy, and I had cause to say, "No disassemble!" and he had no idea what I meant. Even after I told him it was a reference to Short Circuit. And that was one on a long list of reasons by which I knew I should never go out with that guy again. Although I did. Like two more times, I think. But that's just because I am totally undedicated to the pursuit of happiness.
I peeled a pomelo this afternoon. It was delicious and sweet and so juicy as to make a drippy mess of my hands and wrists and early forearms. And it was not so luxurious and decadent as you might think, having watched movies such as The Blue Lagoon. It was a sticky mess, and I resented it. And there was too much of it, so I left a lot just sitting in the kitchen, drying out. The practicalities of living in nature are not welcoming to me. When I see someone in a movie like The Swiss Family Robinson greedily tearing their choppers into the flesh of, say, a mango, all I can think is how much of that mango fur would get stuck between their teeth and how I hope they have some facsimile of dental floss on hand. I also do not really like the idea of having sex on the beach, no matter how many times From Here to Eternity airs.
It would have been nice to not have had so much to worry about today. And that is one item on another sizeable list.

Do not go gently. And do not take Melrose.

So, I almost died is the thing.

I was driving home from the Arclight, where I was seeing The Aviator with my friend Dean, and I took Melrose further west than I normally would. I don't know why. It looked clear enough. And it was late. And I hate waiting for that turn on La Brea. But my second-guessing gene will remind me of this fateful decision for some time to come, I'm sure. Because I was hit by a guy driving head-on into my lane at high speed. I swerved to get out of his way, but I wasn't able to avoid a collision. He then hit two other cars, stopping his car by driving it head-on into a parked car on the opposite side of the street. After two hours of waiting for the police to arrive in the misty rain and then talking to them once they got there, I watched the driver of the Cadillac that hit me get arrested for driving under the influence. And I drove home, with my wheel well dragging against my tire, to let poor little Audrey out for her first pee in eleven hours.

I was hit by a drunk driver. My first Los Angeles driving cliché.

One of the guys at the scene (the brother of one of the drivers) said I looked familiar, and we decided it might be because we are both on MySpace. And he is a musician. And I am a musician. And the girl whose Subaru was creamed was coming back from a gig at the Sunset Room, and she's a musician, too. We should totally start a band.

I was planning to come home tonight and catch up on all the things I haven't written about. But I feel my heart pounding in my head, and I want to plunge it into water. Or stuff it full of cotton. Or just turn the music up really loud. I am dizzy and fidgety and nervous and wide-awake. And I am fully aware of -- and completely not being overdramatic about -- the fact that I could easily have been killed -- to death -- just a couple of hours ago.

When I went to see Ira Glass in San Diego a few weeks ago, he referenced a story he did where he interviewed a bunch of people who had all been struck by lightning. And he said that they all had the exact same story to tell. They all described the sensation the same way, and they all believed that it was a sign that God had a purpose for them or was trying to send them a message.

I do not think that any message was being sent to me. But I do get what it's like to suddenly go, "Oh, shit. Life is short as fuck."

The night is pressing in on the sides of my head like a warm vise. Like a great hand that was recently inside a glove that was on fire. I want to go sit in my closet and smoke a hundred cigarettes. I want to sit in a tub full of hot marmalade. I want to have all of my senses shut down or distracted or somehow repurposed.

I want to go for a long drive. But my car is all fucked.

into the groovy

I went for a run at high noon, and it was a difficult one this time. I never felt the wind in my sails. I just felt my feet burning in my shoes and my brain finding reasons why I might want to shave a bit off my usual five miles.

The wind seems to blow so vigorously from west to east. The first half of my run is always slowed by it. Slighty uphill and into the wind. I dance across mashed berries fallen from overburdened trees. And I try not to get so caught up in my solitude that I find myself accidentally singing aloud.

There is a flower shop I run past with a statue of a jockey standing out in front holding a ring. I always want to snatch it. I have not been on so very many carousels in my lifetime, but I don't know that any of them actually had a brass ring for getting. Or maybe it's just that no one told me to look for one. I've always felt I missed out on something there.

There is a carousel in a shopping center in Encino that has the most appalling animals for riding. Dull-eyed monkeys in sports jerseys. Angry giraffes. Zebras. Cheetahs. Hippos with their weird teeth bared. Maybe a space ship. I was interviewing a woman there last spring, and I photographed it, though I don't know that I ever did anything with the pictures. It appealed to me for some reason. When I was a little girl in Virginia, my parents took me to Ocean View Amusement Park for my birthday, and there was a carousel there where we could ride motorcycles. And that was my favorite. I would much rather sit on a machine with buttons to push than on a fiberglass horse with the paint of its mane worn away from so many hands and pants and embraces. I don't know why that is. Years later, they made a movie called The Death of Ocean View Park and actually blew the place up. I sighed a little watching it.

I did have a fake horse of my own back then. She was called "Wonder Horse" according to the cursive script on her side, and she was mounted in a frame and suspended on big metal springs. I would bounce up and down on her a lot, I recall. I think we kept her out on the back porch, which was enclosed. It's funny, I was so young in that house, I can barely remember enough of it to know what the rooms looked like. I just have specific remembrances of being in the hallway trying to get Slinky to go down the stairs or of being in the living room falling asleep on the blue carpet while my parents watched Jimmy Carter win the presidential election. I remember that we had a playset in the back yard, but that the slide and swings were always spotted with bird shit, so I hated to use them. And there were cherry trees I think...? I think my parents tried to make their own wine...? Maybe I'm imagining that part. I can remember which side of my room the window was on and what part of the floor I used to sit on when playing with Lego bricks or the Fisher-Price farmhouse or school bus or the box I used to keep assorted crap in. Bank forms. Paper clips. Empty pantyhose eggs. I collected all manner of nonsense that I would amuse myself with for hours. I was "imaginative" as a child. But not imaginative enough to think to look for a brass ring on a carousel with motorcycles on it.

I am wearing clothes for summer. That's how imaginative I am.

"And don't start with oysters!"

I went to the beauty supply on my way home and the nice Persian lady behid the counter said to me the following:

"You are so beautiful. With the dimples and the hair and the sexy."

Then she went back to what she was doing as I said, "Thank you," and felt my face flush and got all embarrassed. I guess it's uncomfortable having your day made.

Coffee Shop Advances

Martín and I walked over to Nick's for breakfast, dodging marathoners as we crossed La Cienega. It wasn't as busy as usual on account of the marathon and the streets being closed. We still managed to take an hour to get seated and served and out of there, but Sunday mornings aren't meant for hustle. Even church is mostly just sitting still.

The guy who sat at the counter next to us was very chatty. One of those guys. The ones who make "friends" with all the wait staff and like to pretend they are in tight with everyone. One of the regulars. The owner, Alan (and I'm not saying his name because I'm a regular -- I just heard other people call him that and I don't want my pronouns to become confusing), was encouraging some customers to watch the marathon on the television, and the guy I'm talking about piped up in a plenty loud voice, "The guy who won this year is an African. Go figure." Then, after a beat, he added, "They should have a race just for Africans. Give everyone else a chance." He went on for a bit and was clearly looking for a response, eventually turning to me. And I said, "A segregated marathon? That will probably go over well." And the guy was like, "Well, they win a Honda car. It's not like it's some Los Angeles thing. It's a Japanese car." I didn't understand this premise, but I decided that the winners of the African part of the marathon should maybe get something different. "A slave ship?" Martín added, "And a bus pass." "Right. A Spanish galleon and a bus pass." But I think we'd already lost the guy's attention. He was still going on about how women get a fifteen minute handicap. I took out my little notebook to jot down the framework of this conversation, and he leaned in, "You're writing down my idea, aren't you?" And I admitted that I was. And I think he really began to wonder if it was an idea that had legs. And I was reluctant to type "that had legs" just there, because I didn't want to tempt anyone to think to themselves, "No pun intended." If you know me, you know how much I despise "no pun intended." If I intend a pun, you will know it, and I won't have to point it out to you. And for the record, this seldom happens, as I do not generally care for puns. In all other cases, I won't have intended it, so it will defy the boundaries of necessity to have you remind me that I didn't.

Martín and I walked home past big signs encouraging particular groups of runners. "Go Cleveland Marathoners!" "Go L.A.P.D. Explorers!" And I wondered how well it would go over if there were signs encouraging just the African runners to really buckle down. Mightn't the appearance of a big banner reading "Go Africans!" or "Run, Africans, Run!" have the risk of connoting an invitation to return to the Dark Continent or to dance while bullets are being fired at one's feet? They also apparently have premade signs that you can fill out or add a photo to so that you can hold them up to encourage the specific runner you are there to cheer for. These have a way of looking like milk carton photos to me. Martín noticed one where the person who filled out the sign, wanting to encourage a Vera, had used a marker to write Vera with big quotation marks around it, but they were placed so high that they looked to have been written around the word "Go." As in "'Go,' Vera." As in a sarcastic sign implying that Vera is not likely to be going anywhere. It's possible that I drank too much coffee.

Anyway, the point is, if you're going to sit at a coffee shop counter, bring a paper or pretend to be deaf. Otherwise, you might find yourself in a conversation with a racist.

Race to the Finish

I was having a very realistic dream. It involved The Pixies playing live and they were friends of mine, and they were all on fly tracks, and I thought they should have set up their stage differently. And Mary Louise Parker was about to have a baby. And her husband was trying to give me the cell phone number so I could keep in touch with them. She was my cousin or something. And then I was in bed with two women, and I was going to be a movie director, and you don't need to know the rest of that part. But I awoke thinking, "Is that Bad Religion?" and then "Is that Tears for Fears?" I don't know who the band is, but they're right outside my door. And it's because of the Los Angeles Marathon. And in some fashion, I guess that's cool.