I got a Twitter account. Nothing entertaining yet. I had chicken goop for dinner, than devoured part of a roast chicken for a snack, and added a background to twitter from an image of a CT scan I had a while back. Mmm. BRAINS.
It's not as easy as Abnormal, because I've had little experience with sprogs*. In any case my problem isn't the class. It's the book. First off it came pre-highlighted. Not as in someone had the book before me, but in that the book has words and sections already highlighted in it straight from the printer; I suspect the book was created and mainly formated in some version of WORD. The thing is, highlighting stuff in warm colors is part of how I learn, and are we really that stupid that we need other people to highlight our crap for us, now?
I'm going to start a blog here. How often I post will be entirely dependent upon my own whims.
This will be blog number three. Perhaps it's true that blogging is addictive, and I been hurtin', man, I been hurtin' real bad for it. The other two are on: MySpace and The Engine Network.
Anyway. Simple idea, stolen from someone else, and I've been wondering if I should do it or not.
I'm on Twitter (here if you happen to be interested or masochistic) and I asked those few mad souls who are following me if I should do tiny bits of fiction there. The silence was almost enough to loosen my poor bowels.
So, I run the question past the good people of White Chapel (not the one in London, this forum one) if this would be a good idea. And by extension: would any of you read it?
... for me, aniway. I've been away for some few days because I've finally... FINALLY... installed 4 megs Internet in my notebook and a wireless router... and it took about two days to get the connection just right. But now, I have 4 megs. And you are all DOOMED.
That is, if the connection remains stable. Fingers crossed.
His voice and the sight bread enveloped cooked cow in my foreground jogged a memory. About a year and half ago I worked in a steak house. Many celebrities dined there. Many enjoyed their evenings at my service. I have great success with celebrities because generally I just don't care. They honestly get the same service as anyone I serve. Sometimes worse if they are cunty.
This night we had a celebrity I cared about destined to be served by someone else. Roger Daltry sat with four guests at a booth against the wall full of photographs of our celebrity diners. I had no reason to attend to him except when fate put me beside the kitchen when his food was up.
Roger sat third in and I place his petit filet before him. He stared at it above the tiny, tinted, square lenses of his glasses.
"This isn't mine." "I'm sorry. You didn't order the petit filet?" "Yeah. I did. The small one." "That's it." "That!?! That's 8 oz?" "Yep." "It's enormous. Really...that's an American 8 oz. That's why this country's so fat, you see? They think this is 8 oz. It's ridiculous. And blah. blah, blah. Lovely. Blah, blah, blah."
I felt saddened. Not for America. But for rock n' roll. Sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. I wanted to grab him, shake him, and damn him for selling every song I liked to a Bruckheimer production.
But, I let it go. Sometimes you just have to let it go just to leave some conceptions of cool intact. It wasn't Keith Richards complaining about portion sizes, after all. <em>Who's Next</em> was a long time ago. The Daltry who could eat his share of cow probably went with that album.
I save my fries. Burgers then fries. That's the proper order. You may dabble in fries during burger, but most of the fries must be left once the burger ends. Over fries I considered integrity. Would it be better to die Roger Daltry or hip with wrinkles?
Okay...sorry. Couldn't eat the burger and type at the same time. Here's what you need to know.
First off, I'm a good person. I contributed some coin to KCRW (our NPR station) today. My soul has been cleansed. Guilt free, I can listen to all the radio personalities beg and cajole the listenership for bread and go "Yeah, what's wrong with you fucking people! They'll give you a T-shirt."
When I decided on burger tonight the usual quadrangle of choice popped to mind. We have the 101, Fred 62, Canter's, and Swingers for dining after 11p.m. There's a host of Denny's and such, but, really, this was an act of love. I wanted my burger to taste kind of like burger.
Canter's and Swingers are west of La Brea, kind of a hike, and are last ditch. Swingers has this gaudy loudness, bright orange walls, and this reverence for cows. It's not Hindu. You can eat them. It's just cow decorated and slightly annoying.
Canter's is the place where old servers go to die. Souls are sold in Hollywood for SAG cards and 5 line roles and when the vig comes due, the sellers work at Canter's.
My place nestles equidistant from Fred's and the 101. I tend towards Fred's, its mediocre product, and uncomfortable counter stools cause I know some of the waitresses from around. I fulfill two needs there. I eat junk food and flirtatious, 20 minute junk food relationships. They smile. I smile. We all go home happy.
But it was too fucking crowded and no one worth the wait was on. So, the 101.
See Swingers? The movie not the aforementioned diner. They filmed the last scene in the 101. Probably others, but it's been a long time. That movie epitomizes the Los Angeles experience from Los Feliz to Vine and Franklin. That's where the arty kids move. It's where those who believe they have something to say live. At least that's true when I got here and definitely in the time of Liman/Favreau.
Those of us who stayed and aren't making Iron Man remain cool and hip just with wrinkles. I noticed a new one on my eyelid this morning. Fuck.
So, I'm eating this, okay, but not great burger by myself in the booth as you know around midnight. The waitress and I have exchanged pleasantries and assurances, but around we don't know each other so it lacks flirtation.
A new couple sits in front of me. The smartphone held my attention so they escaped my notice. I detect an accent from the fella with the goofy, Abe Lincoln beard while he gives into the chocolate goodness exuding from my milkshake mere feet away. But meters to him.
Here's the thing about accents in LA, my neighborhood especially. BEWARE! This is still the capitol of reinvention and mental illness, so the psychotic you met on Craig's list may have just decided he's English.
I listen, chomping on my burger. My inner Anglophile tweaks when I hear things like "this guy called..." or "that would be lovely" and "cheers." He's continuous, unending. Whether the front of the back of the blonde head before me wanted to talk I don't know, but he wasn't allowing it. Perhaps, he thought it gentlemanly to do all the talking. Or, perhaps he decided that to survive this date he must. I've had those dates myself.
The woman I was living with and I during Yellow Dust Season. Which is a time in spring*and fall apparently* when the winds from the Manchurian deserts sweep across the Korean peninsula and eventually to North America, leaving a nasty trail of sulfur, carbon and other delicious pollutants in its wake. We woke up one morning to scratchy red eyes, sore throats and this dense fog that obscured anything beyond a block away. Every year hundreds of people die of lung complications from it. Hence the masks and the "the world is about to end" feeling to the picture. None of my students at the time even thought it was a big deal. Given that some of these kids were 17-18 years old, it just showed me what kind of shit you can become accustomed to over time.
Oh, and one of the teachers at my school got fired when someone asked for a definition of pollution. She had simply pointed out the window and said "That."
It's Day 7, it's evening. Time to add this first week to a different tally: my time with the outside world, spending time with real people over a real conversation and not a polite one, has been dwindling.
The last thing I did socially in a group of more than two other people was over thirty days ago, in December. I have had no social interaction, no interaction outside of office and home, in the year 2008.
It is February. Let's shoot for March.
How many days does it take to get listless and bored with the world to the point of self-destruct? Not a gross depressive episode out of despair mind you, but out of a desire for anything- anything at all- to be different? At what point does routine utterly fail to bring any kind of comfort, and in fact become a skipping record?