LAND FOR LEASE: ONLY HALF POLLUTED
In a phantasmagoric lens everybody looks photogenic and magical. Pixellated and enhanced. Blessed by the airbrush. In this digital/spiritual world, we’re all parishioners worshiping the Photoshop.
I chase around dragons because there’s no such things as unicorns.
On days like today, I wish I were the ghost of Bob Ross and could capture the view from my window with a happy touch of this and a freckle of that: the Southern California sun bathing us in its cinematic luminance, the plants eating the light, and the girls on bikes with their skirts floating light and free…
I can see the Hollywood Sign from my window but I hardly look at it because it’s just a sign, an advertisement. There’s a revolving pair of glasses hypnotizing people into seeing an optometrist down on Fairfax I don’t look at either.
My love for you is not vague. But neither is it specific. It’s kinda like a Neil Diamond song. Or Peter, Paul and Mary.
When your iPod shuffle plays one song over and over, is it trying to tell you something?
The waitress told me that she only drinks healthy water like Fiji water. I didn’t have the heart to tell her, on a molecular level, on a “healthy” level, it’s the same water as L.A. water.
I’m thirty-six years old and don’t know my shirt size. This fills me with a plangent happiness. Like a brown lily.
My agent told me they’re only looking for big movies, with big stars. I barely register as a flicker from one concert lighter at a not very good concert. In fact, I don’t even have an agent.
The bank was on fire but he kept grabbing cash and stuffing it in his pockets, although the cash was on fire too and I could see it burning his pants. “What are you doing, Mr. Greenprat? We’ve got to get out of here.” “But we can’t leave the money,” he shrieked. I had to make the decision right there to save myself so I left him in the vault and ran out into the fresh air. The last thing I saw of my old boss he was down on his knees scooping bills into his mouth, flames licking out from the sides.
The people in town always made fun of for him the way he looked, anyway, being that he was in the middle of six feet going on seven and wore a bright blue mohawk — people around here don’t see that often, or ever — so when he started carrying a shovel in the back of his copper Toyota Tercel and took to burying roadkill he finds along the highway and the dirt road leading down to the iron mine, people didn’t seem surprised or even to talk about it. At least his mom didn’t mention nothing to him. It brought him such a peace that he’d never experienced before in his 22 years, giving those poor creatures a resting place, that if anybody decides on saying something funny about it, he’d crack them over the head with his shovel.
My girlfriend came home with a box in her hand. “I got this for you.” We had been fighting recently so I was surprised by this unexpected gift. “Really? What is it?” “Open it.” It was a pinstriped shirt with a dragon print across the chest, the kind of hideous shirts you see those guys wearing on reality shows. I held in my repulsion. “Thanks, baby.” I looked under the collar for an excuse to take it back. “Don’t worry, my love,” she said. We locked eyes and there was a subtle malice to her stare. “I made sure it was your shirt size.”
My friend believes that we never landed on the moon. To tell you the truth, he’s not really my friend. Just a guy I know in a bar I go into a lot, the Hydra Cafe, that talks too much and always seems to have stuff like that on his mind.
She kept kicking the ground and stirring up the dust because it’s just not fair that everybody was going to the water park but she had to stay home with grandma, who’s so old and boring, and although they could see she was getting her dress dirty and had tears coming down her face, they didn’t do anything or even stop as they pulled away in the station wagon, her older sister making faces at her out the back window as the sun torched the ground. Pretty soon there was nothing to kick up. It’s just not fair.
The wrecking ball took out the marquee in one violent swoop. The conductor wept into his hands. The tuba player snickered quietly.
WRITER WANTED: MUST CRY REAL TEARS