This Is a Good One
4-2 Tu 9:41 AM The Universal Sheraton - Literacy Standards. Ooogh my head. Thing and I went out after I got out of class and trodmill. I had qualms from smoking pot. I was afraid to deal with the crowd at Luna Park, so I asked if we could go somewhere smaller first. We went to the Coronet Pub on La Cienega across from the vagina bar. I sat at the bar and it felt like I had never been in a bar before. To get my beer to my mouth was a clumsy, unnatural motion. I couldn't even do left-handed. I was afraid I would knock out a tooth. The girls next to us "danced" across the street. They were talking to some sleazoid porno producer with a fay voice and a line about his wine cellar.
We left after one beer. We had to park a few blocks away from Luna Park. There were a few hundred Africans waiting to get in, and I scoffed at Thing's notion that we would ever get in. "We're on the list," he said. "I've heard that before." Sure enough, though, we asked enough questions to get in the back entrance. It was a cool dark bar with a sunglassed and fedoraed singer fronting a jazz/blues combo. I paid for a coupla bourbons and stood nailed to the same spot as the crowd whirled around me. A number of girls stood by me and seemed to want to talk, but I had nothing. I switched to wine and rubbed a few elbows and managed a few comments. Thing called me over to a table where he sat with some people. I said a few funny things, but I don't remember what they were. Something about, "You can tell a lot about a man by what he says about the the movie "The Rock"." After a few minutes I went back to my corner by the bar. I thought of something I wanted to write, and I pulled out my little notebook, but alas, I had no pen. I remembered how I could produce a pen from thin air, so I looked and wished and there was a straw on the table in the dim. I made one end pointy where a girl had chewed it, and as I stared at it, I created the possibility that it could be a pen, and I went over to it, and by the time I got over there, the transformation was complete, and now I am writing with that same pen.
The place was crawling with women looking for someone to call the shots. Rare, indeed, and of course it was one of those nights when I had nary a shot to call.
At home I gave Bayless a long, well-thought-out lecture on Jesus and God and depression and doing and job-hunting and not living off others, taking the reins, etc., etc.. It was like Ward lecturing the Beaver. Bayelss has got a religious doomsday philosophy, and I tried to present him one of hope and I suggested he take the trash out.
Oogh my aching head.
We left after one beer. We had to park a few blocks away from Luna Park. There were a few hundred Africans waiting to get in, and I scoffed at Thing's notion that we would ever get in. "We're on the list," he said. "I've heard that before." Sure enough, though, we asked enough questions to get in the back entrance. It was a cool dark bar with a sunglassed and fedoraed singer fronting a jazz/blues combo. I paid for a coupla bourbons and stood nailed to the same spot as the crowd whirled around me. A number of girls stood by me and seemed to want to talk, but I had nothing. I switched to wine and rubbed a few elbows and managed a few comments. Thing called me over to a table where he sat with some people. I said a few funny things, but I don't remember what they were. Something about, "You can tell a lot about a man by what he says about the the movie "The Rock"." After a few minutes I went back to my corner by the bar. I thought of something I wanted to write, and I pulled out my little notebook, but alas, I had no pen. I remembered how I could produce a pen from thin air, so I looked and wished and there was a straw on the table in the dim. I made one end pointy where a girl had chewed it, and as I stared at it, I created the possibility that it could be a pen, and I went over to it, and by the time I got over there, the transformation was complete, and now I am writing with that same pen.
The place was crawling with women looking for someone to call the shots. Rare, indeed, and of course it was one of those nights when I had nary a shot to call.
At home I gave Bayless a long, well-thought-out lecture on Jesus and God and depression and doing and job-hunting and not living off others, taking the reins, etc., etc.. It was like Ward lecturing the Beaver. Bayelss has got a religious doomsday philosophy, and I tried to present him one of hope and I suggested he take the trash out.
Oogh my aching head.
posted by johnz at 10:33 AM
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