Fairfax is having their homecoming tonight. The fireworks sent the neighborhood dogs into a tizzy. I love that word: tizzy. I attended their rival, Hamilton High. They beat us every time. We had a killer music program but an inept Athletic department that was only good for helping other teams in the city improve their record. From my kitchen I can hear the crowd cheering. They sound young, optimistic, and void of problems. That’s probably how I sounded when I was 17.
I’m almost twice that age now. Old enough to be their father. It’s a scary thought. Me being a father.
I bought lamb for the first time and have no idea how to season it. I stare at my spices and try to think of the flavors I’ve experienced when eating lamb. I’m out of my league here. At the same time I’m waiting for my laundry to finish washing so I could switch it to the dryer, pondering when my Fridays lost their teeth. Finally a half hour has passed and I venture across the street to my friend’s building where I do my clandestine washing like some kind of laundry Anne Frank, sneaking around so the tenants of his building don’t catch me.
It’s strangely blustery. The wind is whipping. Water is flowing down the side of the road into the gutter. Its pastoral melody is strange to hear with the blare of the loudspeaker at the football game in the background and wail of fire engine sirens in the distant. But it’s the closest sound we have to a bubbling creek in this urban landscape. With the strong wind it’s quite intoxicating for a romantic like me, although I wonder if somewhere a water mane broke. They’ve been snapping all across the city, but especially around here. Something down deep in the Earth is moving.
When I lived in Boston I got a big laugh out of pretending to not know what a riverbank looked like. I do that a lot. Pretend to be stupid.
What are your favorite topics of conversation? Is there anything that really causes you excitement? Passion? We all have something.
I’m still trying to figure out what mine is. Although I know I really like to talk about myself.
I’m drinking locally cultivated Pinot Noir and feeling quite pleased with myself. My wine rack is full for the first time in… ever, I think. That’s what happens when you work down the street from your favorite wine store.
It’s time to cook the lamb. I hope I do that poor animal justice.
They caught John Scott. Who is John Scott? It was on the every newscast. They had a field day with it. He was a 74 year-old “tagger” the police caught and joyfully assigned the label the oldest tagger ever caught. He would leave stickers around town that said “Who Is John Scott?” and if you google that his website pops up where he says who he is. Not much of a mystery.
The lamb didn’t turn out half bad, in case you’re wondering.
Last year for Thanksgiving I took part in Gobble Gobble Give and it was the most rewarding event of my year. I wish I could take part this year but Joshua Tree calls… If anyone in the L.A. area is looking to do some volunteering this year, I highly recommend checking this out.
I sometimes feel my phone is vibrating and dig into my pocket to retrieve it only to discover that I don’t even have my phone on me. Phantom Cell Phone Disorder I’m calling it. Remember when 143 meant I Love You?
Now it’s all about 142. I Love Me. Like the new cell phone ads for YOU. And YOU were Time Person of the Year. It’s all bollocks. They separate us in order to make us vulnerable, have you believing you’re special, unique and can only express this by owning various products that define who YOU are. Guess what? Fuck You. And fuck Me. We’re all in this together and we’re so much more alike than the few sore spots that advertisers strike in order to hawk their goods. No matter what Pepsi tried they couldn’t sell us Crystal Pepsi.
That makes me proud.
We live in an absurd collage. I’m the man in the diving bell and astronaut suit. Right below the fuming volcano and Lou Reed. If God did create us because he was bored than we have something in common. If the Inuit have 57 words for snow, I have 58 for God. In the middle of the collage is a giant, smoking factory. You enter in one door and emerge through the other side as meat.We’re nothing but macramed .
The game must be over because the night is silent except for Friday night revelers jubilantly discussing life and its myriad magical possibilities. Actually, I have no idea what they’re discussing because all you hear is chatter and laughter and your mind colors in the blanks.
When I was young I always had trouble drawing inside the lines.
Now I don’t care. I throw my paint around everywhere.