Tears we don’t find revolting — a lone achievement in the realm of bodily fluids. Blood. Piss. Cum. Shit. Spit. Unless its your own you don’t want anything to do with it. Tears are in rather vile company. Coincidentally – or not – tears are the only bodily fluid humans produce that other animals don’t. Chew on that.
Last night I went to a party in Sherman Oaks. It was a “vampire” party up in the hills and everybody wore fake fangs and fake blood and there was a tubful of Coors Lite I laid waste to in a pinstripe black shirt and red tie. The pool light had a red lens so it looked full of blood, sorta. There was supposed to be fire-breathers but as we were walking up the hill a fire engine was descending the other way so I assume that part of the party was fundamentally altered. For atmosphere there were torches burning around the yard and a stripper pole in the living room. It was a vampire friend’s birthday so of course there was cake. And pictures galore.
Our lives are constantly being documented by our friends. The camera flash is now a ubiquitous constant at bars and parties. We spend half the evening lifting false smiles onto our faces that by the time we go home we’re worn out by all the digital posturing, confused by the clamor of nothingness, wondering what was actually produced, there is a corrosive stunted wonderment invading our culture. Our conversations center around outfits and poses. The toasts and jokes are miserably unoriginal. The deejays don’t even carry records anymore. Oh, the woe of an aging hipster.
My new apartment doesn’t have a window to look out of so I haven’t been writing much about staring out the window. I haven’t yet found the literary usefulness of staring at walls so I’ve decided to focus on my cooking and how buffalo meat tastes so much better to me than cow and it’s probably because it tastes more like meat should, gamey, hearty.
We all live in square rooms with square windows, the walls between us grow thicker as the years compost in the yard.
We light candles and drink wine to unwind and lament the blood stains on the shag rug.
Across town there was also a “white trash” party we were prepared to dash off to should the vampires go on a bloody sucking spree. I had a bag of clothes in the trunk of my car to make the transition from goth to hillbilly, but alas the night didn’t feature a wardrobe change. We loitered in the yard till three in the morning pointing out Orion’s Belt and imagining the various possibilities in the night sky until the mist rolled in and the torches assumed an eldritch glow. We were all princes and princesses of darkness, for a night… some more than others.
Tonight I’m pondering what to do with the piece of pork defrosting in my fridge and if I should get Mexican crema for the mashed potatoes and which wine to open to compliment it all.
I decide against the crema because I’m frankly too lazy and as I peel the potatoes for a minute I let my mind lose itself in the task of preparing my meal — one of the best things life has to offer, both eating and forgetting oneself for a moment.