Women
7-10-98 2:45 PM F
Dublin's again. The Miller rep just had the bartender pour me one "on the company." A free beer from me from the agent of the maker itself...We were going to see a movie at the Laemmle, but I screwed up the starting times, so we came here for a drink, and now we've missed the second starting time as well.
So now what? I'm going to go sink a rack. Then I don't know what. A nice-looking viking broad is sipping something by herself.
7-11-98 6:10 PM Sa
Rita Flora. Stopped in at the Tales Bookshop. They had a few books that I wanted, but none that I desperately wanted. Then I walked up the street to Pulp. They had a bunch of books I desperately wanted, but I didn't get any of them because I am afraid to spend the money, and there are still so many books at the house I haven't read. Maybe, after I get paid next week...Or maybe I should wait until I've read all the books in my house. I wonder how long that will take. Years, certainly. Maybe as few as two. I can't wait that long to get all the other books I want. I listed the names of all the authors I want in my little notepad, but I won't reprise that here. Got a fucking six dollar glass of cabernet. Doh. I was going to get the spinach pie, but then I decided again I was afraid to spend the money, and it's not on the menu tonight anyway. I wonder if you can still get it. I love the way the ivy hangs down from the ceiling of the sidewalk overhang outside this place. There were other things I wanted to write, things that seemed important, but, as usual, trivial things seem to be forcing those other things out of the way.
"What happened to my rings?" Shirelle held open a little velvet box that should have had in it a set of three matching rings she cajoled me into buying for her a year or so ago, two silver bands with little cubic zirconiums embedded all the way around them and a daintier silver ring with a larger zircon sticking out of it. She bugged me about them for days. I didn't want to get them. I understand the symbolism. She had been pretty much pissing me off for a solid year, but we had been together so long that, though I'd had visions of alternatives, and even little plots here and there, I couldn't, wouldn't, didn't make any clean breaks. And she kept bugging me, so I got all pissed off and grim, and drove us to the fucking mall, she, by then, of course, the whole time telling me to forget about it.
At the mall, the jeweler noted my stoic countenance and said to me, "Ah, look au appi she is."
"Yeah," I said.
Well , she wore them for a while, and about a year later she gave them back to me because now she wants the same rings but in platinum and diamonds instead of silver and zircons, as an engagement ring--or rings, I should say. I don't know when I'm supposed to be able to afford that. Not until I pay off my ten grand in debt. Anyway, they've been sitting on the top shelf of the hutch of my desk in their little velvet box for the last couple months. Carlin from downstairs, a girl with too much Claremont psych "education" and an overly-sensitive attitude about perceived slights to her status by men, starving for attention, lonely because of her education and her attitude toward men and her refusal to recognize sexual politics, and horny and looking to score, was up here again, interrupting my writing to ask what I was writing, and twenty other pointless, lonely, questions. She picked up the velvet case and opened it and fawned over the stupid rings and put them on her finger. She said she wanted them and asked whose they were. I had to say they were Shirelle's. Carlin hates Shirelle. Shirelle hates Carlin. Carlin's always trying to break us up, telling me how bad Shirelle is for me and trying to get me to do things with her instead of Shirelle. Well, Carlin wore the rings down to her house even though I had asked her to leave them in the box. I had to go down and get them back. Now Shirelle always hassles me about Carlin. I keep telling her that she has NOTHING to worry about Carlin and her negative attitude--I tell her that she and I are friendly only and sometimes barely that. I sympathize with her loneliness as a fellow human being and that is ALL. But Shirelle has little sympathy, says she hates the bitch, wants to kick her ass, mutters that she better keep her hands of her boyfriend, etc.. And now Shirelle's standing there with the empty case saying,"Where's my rings?" "I don't know," I say, but I have an idea. I went down to Carlin's and knocked on the door. "Do you have those rings again?" I ask. "Yeah," she says. "Dammit! That pisses me off. You're causing a big mess for me. I already asked you once not to take them and you went and did it again!" "Sorry," she said and handed them back. I didn't say anything else to her. I went upstairs and gave the rings to Shirelle. "Why does she have them?" she asks. "I don't know," I say. "Really I don't know. I have nothing to do with it. I swear."
Dublin's again. The Miller rep just had the bartender pour me one "on the company." A free beer from me from the agent of the maker itself...We were going to see a movie at the Laemmle, but I screwed up the starting times, so we came here for a drink, and now we've missed the second starting time as well.
So now what? I'm going to go sink a rack. Then I don't know what. A nice-looking viking broad is sipping something by herself.
7-11-98 6:10 PM Sa
Rita Flora. Stopped in at the Tales Bookshop. They had a few books that I wanted, but none that I desperately wanted. Then I walked up the street to Pulp. They had a bunch of books I desperately wanted, but I didn't get any of them because I am afraid to spend the money, and there are still so many books at the house I haven't read. Maybe, after I get paid next week...Or maybe I should wait until I've read all the books in my house. I wonder how long that will take. Years, certainly. Maybe as few as two. I can't wait that long to get all the other books I want. I listed the names of all the authors I want in my little notepad, but I won't reprise that here. Got a fucking six dollar glass of cabernet. Doh. I was going to get the spinach pie, but then I decided again I was afraid to spend the money, and it's not on the menu tonight anyway. I wonder if you can still get it. I love the way the ivy hangs down from the ceiling of the sidewalk overhang outside this place. There were other things I wanted to write, things that seemed important, but, as usual, trivial things seem to be forcing those other things out of the way.
"What happened to my rings?" Shirelle held open a little velvet box that should have had in it a set of three matching rings she cajoled me into buying for her a year or so ago, two silver bands with little cubic zirconiums embedded all the way around them and a daintier silver ring with a larger zircon sticking out of it. She bugged me about them for days. I didn't want to get them. I understand the symbolism. She had been pretty much pissing me off for a solid year, but we had been together so long that, though I'd had visions of alternatives, and even little plots here and there, I couldn't, wouldn't, didn't make any clean breaks. And she kept bugging me, so I got all pissed off and grim, and drove us to the fucking mall, she, by then, of course, the whole time telling me to forget about it.
At the mall, the jeweler noted my stoic countenance and said to me, "Ah, look au appi she is."
"Yeah," I said.
Well , she wore them for a while, and about a year later she gave them back to me because now she wants the same rings but in platinum and diamonds instead of silver and zircons, as an engagement ring--or rings, I should say. I don't know when I'm supposed to be able to afford that. Not until I pay off my ten grand in debt. Anyway, they've been sitting on the top shelf of the hutch of my desk in their little velvet box for the last couple months. Carlin from downstairs, a girl with too much Claremont psych "education" and an overly-sensitive attitude about perceived slights to her status by men, starving for attention, lonely because of her education and her attitude toward men and her refusal to recognize sexual politics, and horny and looking to score, was up here again, interrupting my writing to ask what I was writing, and twenty other pointless, lonely, questions. She picked up the velvet case and opened it and fawned over the stupid rings and put them on her finger. She said she wanted them and asked whose they were. I had to say they were Shirelle's. Carlin hates Shirelle. Shirelle hates Carlin. Carlin's always trying to break us up, telling me how bad Shirelle is for me and trying to get me to do things with her instead of Shirelle. Well, Carlin wore the rings down to her house even though I had asked her to leave them in the box. I had to go down and get them back. Now Shirelle always hassles me about Carlin. I keep telling her that she has NOTHING to worry about Carlin and her negative attitude--I tell her that she and I are friendly only and sometimes barely that. I sympathize with her loneliness as a fellow human being and that is ALL. But Shirelle has little sympathy, says she hates the bitch, wants to kick her ass, mutters that she better keep her hands of her boyfriend, etc.. And now Shirelle's standing there with the empty case saying,"Where's my rings?" "I don't know," I say, but I have an idea. I went down to Carlin's and knocked on the door. "Do you have those rings again?" I ask. "Yeah," she says. "Dammit! That pisses me off. You're causing a big mess for me. I already asked you once not to take them and you went and did it again!" "Sorry," she said and handed them back. I didn't say anything else to her. I went upstairs and gave the rings to Shirelle. "Why does she have them?" she asks. "I don't know," I say. "Really I don't know. I have nothing to do with it. I swear."
Labels: Literary Los Angeles
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