Whew! Am I glad to see you! Because it means that it’s a new week, and let me tell you – I used last week until it was nothing but a grey and tattered rag. So I can’t wear last week anymore, but I can use it to clean my car.
But I don’t have a car.
Life is complicated.
Since I arrived in Hollywood five years ago, a young and vibrant crackerjack of a kid with high hopes and boundless dreams, I have used my wit and spunk to cultivate a lifestyle wherein which I spend most of my time hidden away in my spooky study, hunched over my laptop and writing scripts about young and vibrant crackerjack kids which I ceased to resemble about five years ago. It’s a circle of muthuhfuggin’ life.
As a result, I haven’t ever actually developed a circle of friends. I’ve just kind of Yoko Ono’d my way into my boyfriend’s social circle, hoping no one would notice. People from my hometown find this hard to believe.
“Job, how is it that a young and vibrant crackerjack like you hasn’t been surrounded by fawning admirers?” they collectively ask.
“Well gang,” I answer as I mix up a batch of my famous celebrities, “I’ve just been so focused on my writing career. I’ve already met the person I want to be in a relationship with for the rest of my life, so unlike my single friends I’m not driven out to socialize in order to find a mate; plus there’s something about fun and laughter and good times that gives me a tummy ache.”
But it’s 2010, the year I make contact. I’m done with being a reclusive writer. A writer, yes – I’m that by nature more than choice – but reclusive, no. While I love Virginia Woolf’s books more than I love most people, I don’t want to end up like her. I will rise from her watery grave! (metaphorically speaking) I will walk the Earth and meet it’s people! I will… well, I guess I’ll be a Virginia Woolf zombie? (metaphorically speaking)
A zombie needs a room of her own and brains if she is to write.
Ugh… I hate it when I lose control of these blogs. I’d take medication for my ADD but I always get distracted.
Anyway, last week I uncharacteristically went out for St. Patrick’s Day. Like, to a bar. Where people were.
I know, right?
And here’s the kicker: I had a great time! It turns out that fun and laughter and good times are as enjoyable as they say. Who knew? I still got a tummy ache, but that didn’t come until the next day, after consuming more beer than I had blood in my body.
Did you know if you drink too much beer you get drunk? No one tells me these things! And it gets worse: the next day you feel awful. Like… like… (I’m searching for words to describe how it feels.) Like you've been hung… over some… thing. I don’t know. Hung over something. Hung? Forget about it. It feels gross – let’s leave it at that.
I suppose I should have anticipated this would happen considering that the MC of my evening was my new friend, Señor Danger. The name’s a tip off, I suppose.
Señor Danger picked me up in his truck, which is roughly the size of the state from which he came, and we spent the next two hours looking for parking (I didn’t realize we were looking for parking until about an hour in; I just thought we were taking a really complicated route to his house).
We relaxed in his apartment, drinking some preparatory bruskis, and waited for a taxi. It was my first time at his place, so I quickly snooped his book and music collection, which is always the best way to discover who someone is. Titles like How to Win Friends and Influence People into the Back of Your Windowless Van and The Holy Bible, King’s African Riles Version, would perhaps prompt lesser people to question Señor Danger’s character, but I perceived a diamond in the rough.
No, really. There was this rough patch in his linoleum, and stuck inside it was this perfect, glittering diamond. I showed it to Señor Danger and he said I could keep it! I was so excited. He muttered something more about some curse or something: “…life around me… crumbling into ruin… monkey’s face… etc…” I was too hypnotized by the beauty of the gem to pay attention.
His music library consisted of a lot of country and Latin jazz, and that’s something to be proud of.
The taxi came, and after a classic verbal exchange with a heavily accented driver wherein which each party repeated directions – with neither driver nor passenger fully understanding the other – until everyone gave up and assumed it would all work out (which it usually does), we cruised into Boys Town. All the while the taxi radio blared…
...Which is a song that always makes me kind of sad, because they played it at my Grandma's funeral. But I digress...
We met up with a couple of Señor Danger’s pals, St. Andrew and The Nurse.
“Who names their kids these things?” I wondered to myself, until, and to my relief, I remembered that these were just pseudonyms I was making up for my blog.
After a meal of ground beef patties served on rolls of baked bread, garnished with vegetables, melted cheese and various sauces, plus a few more preparatory brews (see a pattern forming here?) we set out in search of a party.
We ended up at some cantina where beers were $1.00 each, which sounds like a great idea until about $20.00 later. Señor Danger and I were accused of being brothers on a few separate occasions (us white people all look alike), and we alternately answered that we were brothers, or that we were lovers, or on at least one awkward occasion, combined these two answers into one.
Time passed. The bars in West Hollywood seem to match the volume dials on their sound systems with their clocks, so with each passing hour the music grows louder, until about one o’clock ante meridiem, when you can feel the music more than you can hear it. Señor Danger noticed a slight trickle of blood dripping from my ear, so we decided to call it a night.
We walked back to his home in Beverly Hills, all the while discussing what was most broken about us, both emotionally and spiritually – a topic that, as a man of Swedish decent, feels as natural to me as discussing weather.
After safely seeing him home, I set out for my own abode on the Miracle Mile. It was a pretty straight-forward route; from Beverly Hills you head east on Wilshire. Even so, and even with the aid of Google maps, I managed to set forth for what would have eventually been Santa Monica, had my compassionate boyfriend not intervened with a late night car rescue. Did you know that when you’re drunk it makes you more likely to make poor decisions? No one tells me these things!
The next morning I had to go to work at Amoeba Music Hollywood. Here’s where working in a record store has a real advantage: if you show up looking hung-over, you pretty much look like everyone else. I spent the day begging my co-workers to select headache-friendly music choices, such as these:
...All of which is stuff you can find in the back room at Amoeba Music.
My search for new friends and experiences outside my home continues. If you’re interested in being rad with me, do drop me a line. (metaphorically speaking)