My apartment. ...Or wait - No, this is a picture of Dresden after the bombing.
I’m looking around my apartment for a conversational starting point. My apartment is a mess right now, so there’s a lot to see:
A full hamper of clean clothes that I haven’t yet folded and tucked away.
The (amazing and important) Paul Robeson DVD box set that Criterion released. On top of that is the Nina Simone “Four Women” anthology that Charles loaned me.
My stereo, upon which some Marianne Faithfull recordings of Kurt Weill is playing.
Books everywhere, the closest of which, to me, is “Scum Manifesto” by that blithe and sparkling literary pixie, Valerie Solanas.
A drop-leaf table from Ikea that’s nearly completed construction (since February).
A computer upon which I’m writing an, as yet, trite and aimless blog.
I really should clean this place up.
You know, speaking of Marianne Faithfull, she came into Amoeba Hollywood not that long ago. Normally, when celebrities shop our store (every hour, it seems) I turn a blind eye. I don’t want to be “that guy” that demands some stranger’s time because I “feel” like I “know them” because they played some teen star’s mom on some trite and aimless sitcom.
However, when Kim and Logan came racing back to the soundtrack section to tell me they spotted the glorious Ms. Faithfull inside, I dropped everything and gave chase. I knew, from friends’ stories, that Ms. Faithfull was gracious; besides, I admire her so much that it would be an honor just to have her snub me, so I couldn’t lose, either way.