Fa La La LA LA LA Land
12-21 1:30 AM
Upstairs. Radio on. The door clicks open. It's Thing. I put a beer bottle on top of the Christmas tree where the star or the spire or the angel should be. The G.I.P. fell asleep on the couch at the party. I cracked about taking his pulse and calling him Farley. Here's a Bud Light in a can. GIP gave me a Wild Goose calendar. That's his favorite strip club. Glorious was comparing herself to the girls in the calendar.
"The horror," says Thing.
"What's the horror tonight?" I ask.
He looks at a loss for words.
"General principles?" I suggest.
12-22 1 PM M
If I go to a bar will I just get more depressed? First day of a three-week vacation. I hope I make it. What will I do? Buy a diamond ring? Miller is feeling pretty bad about losing a girl. Am I just absorbing that? Shirelle hates that I write in my journal. She said I read the newspaper and never talk. That's why she left me. I think about getting an easel.
12-28 7 PM Su
I guess I better start writing again. I'm on the front steps. The house across the street is all lit up in blinking Christmas colors. An electric bell dings out a litany of carols. I'm waiting for Glorious to come back. She must have gone with Carlin, and now they're talking about what a fucking idiot I am. I can't bear to tell it. Shirelle, the bitch, called and was all upset that I am with Glorious. She said, "Here's your chance, asshole, come over and bring some weed." Glorious and I had spent a happy weekend together. I read her my work on Jim while we sat in the tub and she liked it. She says she's falling in love with me. Shirelle called, though, and I told Glorious I still loved Shirelle and had to go to her if she wanted me. I'm a fucking idiot. I walked to La Brea and Highland and caught a cab. Shirelle only wanted to fuck with my head some more. She is a dangerous bitch. I left her telling her that the damage she causes would come back to haunt her. I caught a bus back. I ran here from the bus stop. Glory's car is still in the driveway, but she's gone. I'm a fucking idiot. Joy to the World. God hates man. Forgive me. I'm a selfish bastard. Born the victim of demons. Mac came in through the upstairs window this morning. He was reading my shit while Glory slept on my chest. I wonder what he thought. We went to a party in Topanga last night. Drew Passage came and got Glory and me and we drove up and met Hosebag and Kayo. Drew and I were talking about one drunken night in Manhattan (NYC, not Beach) five years ago when we got all fucked up because I was all fucked up how it always turns out women don't actually love me. After a night of drinking and titty bars, Drew decided I needed a hooker, but the bars and liquor stores would be closing at 4 AM, so we quickly picked up a six pack of tall boys and were sipping them in the car driving around in the Z half-heartedly looking for hookers when I got pulled over. There's nowhere to pull over in Manhattan, though; the streets are lined with parked cars. I stopped in the middle of the street. Drew and I were both laughing. We didn't even try to hide our beers. I kept mine right between my thighs. "Looks like this it." The cops came up to both windows. License and registration. "You're from California? You can't make a right turn at a red light in New York," he said. "Who's that?" My wallet was still open from taking out my license, and in there is a picture of my old man in his LAPD uniform with the American flag behind him. "My dad," I answered. "What department is he?" "LAPD," I said. "LAPD? Okay, follow us." The drove around until they found a parking spot for us and pointed out a diner they said was good and told us to go get breakfast and not get in the car again until the sun came up. Somehow though, Drew and I got separated, and I was walking around midtown sweaty, lost and alone in a cold drizzle with my shirt off and the street people calling out to me for two hours before the sun started coming up. I bumped into Drew again in front of Madison Square Garden, and then it was another hour or so before we found the car and drove back to his place on the lower east side.
Last night I told Drew nothing had changed I was still that big of a fucked up idiot. He laughed and said, "Cool, man."
In the backseat on the way home, I searched for Glorious' hand in the dark and held it while she slept. A guy at the bar told me I look like James Dean. "Tell it to the chicks," I said.
Let heaven and nature sing.
Upstairs. Radio on. The door clicks open. It's Thing. I put a beer bottle on top of the Christmas tree where the star or the spire or the angel should be. The G.I.P. fell asleep on the couch at the party. I cracked about taking his pulse and calling him Farley. Here's a Bud Light in a can. GIP gave me a Wild Goose calendar. That's his favorite strip club. Glorious was comparing herself to the girls in the calendar.
"The horror," says Thing.
"What's the horror tonight?" I ask.
He looks at a loss for words.
"General principles?" I suggest.
12-22 1 PM M
If I go to a bar will I just get more depressed? First day of a three-week vacation. I hope I make it. What will I do? Buy a diamond ring? Miller is feeling pretty bad about losing a girl. Am I just absorbing that? Shirelle hates that I write in my journal. She said I read the newspaper and never talk. That's why she left me. I think about getting an easel.
12-28 7 PM Su
I guess I better start writing again. I'm on the front steps. The house across the street is all lit up in blinking Christmas colors. An electric bell dings out a litany of carols. I'm waiting for Glorious to come back. She must have gone with Carlin, and now they're talking about what a fucking idiot I am. I can't bear to tell it. Shirelle, the bitch, called and was all upset that I am with Glorious. She said, "Here's your chance, asshole, come over and bring some weed." Glorious and I had spent a happy weekend together. I read her my work on Jim while we sat in the tub and she liked it. She says she's falling in love with me. Shirelle called, though, and I told Glorious I still loved Shirelle and had to go to her if she wanted me. I'm a fucking idiot. I walked to La Brea and Highland and caught a cab. Shirelle only wanted to fuck with my head some more. She is a dangerous bitch. I left her telling her that the damage she causes would come back to haunt her. I caught a bus back. I ran here from the bus stop. Glory's car is still in the driveway, but she's gone. I'm a fucking idiot. Joy to the World. God hates man. Forgive me. I'm a selfish bastard. Born the victim of demons. Mac came in through the upstairs window this morning. He was reading my shit while Glory slept on my chest. I wonder what he thought. We went to a party in Topanga last night. Drew Passage came and got Glory and me and we drove up and met Hosebag and Kayo. Drew and I were talking about one drunken night in Manhattan (NYC, not Beach) five years ago when we got all fucked up because I was all fucked up how it always turns out women don't actually love me. After a night of drinking and titty bars, Drew decided I needed a hooker, but the bars and liquor stores would be closing at 4 AM, so we quickly picked up a six pack of tall boys and were sipping them in the car driving around in the Z half-heartedly looking for hookers when I got pulled over. There's nowhere to pull over in Manhattan, though; the streets are lined with parked cars. I stopped in the middle of the street. Drew and I were both laughing. We didn't even try to hide our beers. I kept mine right between my thighs. "Looks like this it." The cops came up to both windows. License and registration. "You're from California? You can't make a right turn at a red light in New York," he said. "Who's that?" My wallet was still open from taking out my license, and in there is a picture of my old man in his LAPD uniform with the American flag behind him. "My dad," I answered. "What department is he?" "LAPD," I said. "LAPD? Okay, follow us." The drove around until they found a parking spot for us and pointed out a diner they said was good and told us to go get breakfast and not get in the car again until the sun came up. Somehow though, Drew and I got separated, and I was walking around midtown sweaty, lost and alone in a cold drizzle with my shirt off and the street people calling out to me for two hours before the sun started coming up. I bumped into Drew again in front of Madison Square Garden, and then it was another hour or so before we found the car and drove back to his place on the lower east side.
Last night I told Drew nothing had changed I was still that big of a fucked up idiot. He laughed and said, "Cool, man."
In the backseat on the way home, I searched for Glorious' hand in the dark and held it while she slept. A guy at the bar told me I look like James Dean. "Tell it to the chicks," I said.
Let heaven and nature sing.
Labels: Lowlife LA Literature
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