Quintessential Lowlife LA Literature
3-16-98 Mon 8:08 AM
I'm hardly writing at all. My reading has slowed way down. I spent most of the weekend with Shirelle. Hum. Friday, Modchill and Montes and I went to El Coyote for some drinks. Then we went to Crazy Girls, but it was closed because its liquor license had been suspended. So we went to Dublin's Irish Whiskey Pub. Some crazy-ass crack whore kept grabbing our crotches and rubbing her ass on our zippers while we were playing pool. We went to my house. I told Thing and Tim and Montes and GIP that the four of them together couldn't take me down. Montes started talking some bullshit about how he had once been a marine. We all went out to the front lawn. It was raining. I took off my shirt. Montes and Modchill rushed me, and I threw Montes to the ground and put Tim in a headlock. I called on Thing and GIP to come at me, but they were sober and wouldn't bite. Montes started complaining about his shoulder. He said he was in a lot of pain and wanted to go to the hospital. I scoffed and made fun of him. GIP said he would take him. We all rode along. The hospital was weird. No one was there. Friday night, you'd think it would be rocking, but the place was deserted. The automatic doors opened, but no one was at any of the counters. We wandered upstairs, checking examining rooms, looking for help. It seemed like the rapture had happened or the hospital had been suddenly abandoned because of some kind of viral outbreak of the Andromeda Strain. We started monkeying with the medical equipment, taking each other's blood pressure and checking each other's reflexes and looking for pills. Eventually we found a receptionist. I asked her where the cigarette machine was. I couldn't stop ragging on Montes. I told her we had a wounded marine in need of morphine, stat. Finally, some doctor wearing scrubs and an Indiana Jones fedora took Montes back somewhere deeper in the hospital. We waited in the waiting room. It was boring. I started telling the guys that Montes wasn't really hurt. He was just acting like a pussy and we should leave him there. They were reluctant at first, but I could tell they wanted to leave too, they merely had moral qualms, and I kept haranguing them until they had all relented one-by-one, and we bailed on him--left our fallen comrade behind and went to nearby Jumbo's Clown Room for embarrassingly small draft beers and B-squad stripteases. One of the girls started bitching at us about not tipping her, calling us idiots and telling us how stupid we were and I said, Yeah, and you need the money cuz you're paying your way through college. We left. Some of us wanted Burger King and some of us wanted McDonald's and we drove through both, and I ordered food at both places. We went back to my pad, and I passed out, covered in fast food.
I woke up with a nasty hangover. Shirelle called and I drove over there because she usually has clean, cool sheets. She made me watch a tape of Oprah, but I didn't mind because it had Robin Williams, Matt Damon, and Ben Afleck talking about Good Will Hunting. I was jealous I didn't have anyone I could work with to write a good screenplay. Afterward, we had a quickie in the shower. Then she made me watch Titanic. It's still lame. We ate at Houstons in Westwood with her gift certificate. A rainbow arched over Wilshire on the way back to Hollywood. Back at her place, she tried to make me watch Dangerous Minds. It was alike a bad made-for-tv movie, but I fell mercifully asleep. She woke me up when it was over and said she wanted me to take a bath with her and sent me to the liquor store for champagne. I walked there in my moccasin slippers. It was closed. I walked to Trader Joe's from there. I picked out a bottle of Gloria Farrar. It came out to $10.27 with tax. I had ten bucks. I thought of asking the panhandler out front for a quarter, but instead I went back to the refrigerated glass doors and got a six-dollar bottle of Asti. I walked back to Shirelle's. She said she couldn't drink Asti; it's too sweet. We just sat in the tub and got out and went to sleep. Sunday morning, she and Kristina and I hiked up Runyon Canyon. When we got back we made soft-boiled eggs and bacon and toast and French toast. Then we went to my house and hung out. I started falling asleep in front of the UCLA game, and Shirelle started bitching if I was just going to fall asleep, she wanted to go home. I took her home. I went back to my house and read the first five pages of Proverbs. Wise men follow the word of God. Evil men shall be forsaken. I went back to Shirelle's house that night. We watched Dante's Peak and got a bottle of wine and ate some leftover trout. This morning we tried to bone, but I went soft in the middle of it. She put on an x-rated move and tried to rub me hard, but my soft dick just came. I tried to tell her I needed to take a few days off drinking. She was miffed and nearly threw me out of the house. At school this morning, Montes called me. He said he has a ruptured biceps.
I'm hardly writing at all. My reading has slowed way down. I spent most of the weekend with Shirelle. Hum. Friday, Modchill and Montes and I went to El Coyote for some drinks. Then we went to Crazy Girls, but it was closed because its liquor license had been suspended. So we went to Dublin's Irish Whiskey Pub. Some crazy-ass crack whore kept grabbing our crotches and rubbing her ass on our zippers while we were playing pool. We went to my house. I told Thing and Tim and Montes and GIP that the four of them together couldn't take me down. Montes started talking some bullshit about how he had once been a marine. We all went out to the front lawn. It was raining. I took off my shirt. Montes and Modchill rushed me, and I threw Montes to the ground and put Tim in a headlock. I called on Thing and GIP to come at me, but they were sober and wouldn't bite. Montes started complaining about his shoulder. He said he was in a lot of pain and wanted to go to the hospital. I scoffed and made fun of him. GIP said he would take him. We all rode along. The hospital was weird. No one was there. Friday night, you'd think it would be rocking, but the place was deserted. The automatic doors opened, but no one was at any of the counters. We wandered upstairs, checking examining rooms, looking for help. It seemed like the rapture had happened or the hospital had been suddenly abandoned because of some kind of viral outbreak of the Andromeda Strain. We started monkeying with the medical equipment, taking each other's blood pressure and checking each other's reflexes and looking for pills. Eventually we found a receptionist. I asked her where the cigarette machine was. I couldn't stop ragging on Montes. I told her we had a wounded marine in need of morphine, stat. Finally, some doctor wearing scrubs and an Indiana Jones fedora took Montes back somewhere deeper in the hospital. We waited in the waiting room. It was boring. I started telling the guys that Montes wasn't really hurt. He was just acting like a pussy and we should leave him there. They were reluctant at first, but I could tell they wanted to leave too, they merely had moral qualms, and I kept haranguing them until they had all relented one-by-one, and we bailed on him--left our fallen comrade behind and went to nearby Jumbo's Clown Room for embarrassingly small draft beers and B-squad stripteases. One of the girls started bitching at us about not tipping her, calling us idiots and telling us how stupid we were and I said, Yeah, and you need the money cuz you're paying your way through college. We left. Some of us wanted Burger King and some of us wanted McDonald's and we drove through both, and I ordered food at both places. We went back to my pad, and I passed out, covered in fast food.
I woke up with a nasty hangover. Shirelle called and I drove over there because she usually has clean, cool sheets. She made me watch a tape of Oprah, but I didn't mind because it had Robin Williams, Matt Damon, and Ben Afleck talking about Good Will Hunting. I was jealous I didn't have anyone I could work with to write a good screenplay. Afterward, we had a quickie in the shower. Then she made me watch Titanic. It's still lame. We ate at Houstons in Westwood with her gift certificate. A rainbow arched over Wilshire on the way back to Hollywood. Back at her place, she tried to make me watch Dangerous Minds. It was alike a bad made-for-tv movie, but I fell mercifully asleep. She woke me up when it was over and said she wanted me to take a bath with her and sent me to the liquor store for champagne. I walked there in my moccasin slippers. It was closed. I walked to Trader Joe's from there. I picked out a bottle of Gloria Farrar. It came out to $10.27 with tax. I had ten bucks. I thought of asking the panhandler out front for a quarter, but instead I went back to the refrigerated glass doors and got a six-dollar bottle of Asti. I walked back to Shirelle's. She said she couldn't drink Asti; it's too sweet. We just sat in the tub and got out and went to sleep. Sunday morning, she and Kristina and I hiked up Runyon Canyon. When we got back we made soft-boiled eggs and bacon and toast and French toast. Then we went to my house and hung out. I started falling asleep in front of the UCLA game, and Shirelle started bitching if I was just going to fall asleep, she wanted to go home. I took her home. I went back to my house and read the first five pages of Proverbs. Wise men follow the word of God. Evil men shall be forsaken. I went back to Shirelle's house that night. We watched Dante's Peak and got a bottle of wine and ate some leftover trout. This morning we tried to bone, but I went soft in the middle of it. She put on an x-rated move and tried to rub me hard, but my soft dick just came. I tried to tell her I needed to take a few days off drinking. She was miffed and nearly threw me out of the house. At school this morning, Montes called me. He said he has a ruptured biceps.
Labels: Lowlife LA Literature
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