Because That's the Trip She Always Lays on Me
10:21 Su July 19, 1998
The pencil doesn't write as outrageously as the red pen. It is more unassuming. It seems fearless. Fearless because its mistakes are eraseable, unassuming because of its impermanence. That seemed like something to write, but I goofed it up.
10:50 PM Mon July 20
I'm at the kitchen in Shirelle's apartment on Gardener and Santa Monica. I walked here from Keniston and Pico. It must be about four and half miles at least. I thought about stopping at a café to write this, but it didn't seem necessary. A bowl here holds lemons and freckled bananas, and I think those are orchids in the vase. Shirelle has a set of Toulousse-LaTrec inspired dishware. "Reine de Joie," "Montmarte," "Chamsonier," Black-stockinged girls can can across a plate. The kitchen has a black and white checkerboard floor. One of the orchids just gave up and fell off its stem. Shirelle has hung bouquets of dead roses all around the kitchen. It's unlikely they're all from me. There's a poster-sized print, done in pencil originally, I guess, but it almost looks like a black and white photograph, of James Dean on a Harley, Marilyn Monroe behind him with her arms around his waist resting her cheek on his back, eyes closed. There's a JERRY SEINFELD LIVE ON BROADWAY poster on the side of the refrigerator. It's held in place by a magnet on each corner: a corn on the cob, a carrot, a pretzel, and a Howard Stern. Shirelle's making a salad. I'm eating some bar mix I remember getting back in March when we were shopping for her birthday. There's an old-fashioned gumball machine here, but there haven't been any gumballs in it for a long time. The salad has lettuce, cucumber, green bell pepper, purple cabbage, shredded carrot, some artificial bacon, and bleu cheese. I said to Shirelle, "I hope you're going to join me." She said, "I'm watching 'Tombstone' now." I said, "Okay, you've got better things to do than hang out with me," because that's the trip she's always trying to hang on me. She came over and sat down. "I thought you were trying to write in your journal and didn't want to be bothered," she said. Got me. I said, "Go ahead and watch your movie if you want." She went upstairs with her salad. I wonder if McGwire hit any homers today. I have to pick up my serviced radiator tomorrow.
The pencil doesn't write as outrageously as the red pen. It is more unassuming. It seems fearless. Fearless because its mistakes are eraseable, unassuming because of its impermanence. That seemed like something to write, but I goofed it up.
10:50 PM Mon July 20
I'm at the kitchen in Shirelle's apartment on Gardener and Santa Monica. I walked here from Keniston and Pico. It must be about four and half miles at least. I thought about stopping at a café to write this, but it didn't seem necessary. A bowl here holds lemons and freckled bananas, and I think those are orchids in the vase. Shirelle has a set of Toulousse-LaTrec inspired dishware. "Reine de Joie," "Montmarte," "Chamsonier," Black-stockinged girls can can across a plate. The kitchen has a black and white checkerboard floor. One of the orchids just gave up and fell off its stem. Shirelle has hung bouquets of dead roses all around the kitchen. It's unlikely they're all from me. There's a poster-sized print, done in pencil originally, I guess, but it almost looks like a black and white photograph, of James Dean on a Harley, Marilyn Monroe behind him with her arms around his waist resting her cheek on his back, eyes closed. There's a JERRY SEINFELD LIVE ON BROADWAY poster on the side of the refrigerator. It's held in place by a magnet on each corner: a corn on the cob, a carrot, a pretzel, and a Howard Stern. Shirelle's making a salad. I'm eating some bar mix I remember getting back in March when we were shopping for her birthday. There's an old-fashioned gumball machine here, but there haven't been any gumballs in it for a long time. The salad has lettuce, cucumber, green bell pepper, purple cabbage, shredded carrot, some artificial bacon, and bleu cheese. I said to Shirelle, "I hope you're going to join me." She said, "I'm watching 'Tombstone' now." I said, "Okay, you've got better things to do than hang out with me," because that's the trip she's always trying to hang on me. She came over and sat down. "I thought you were trying to write in your journal and didn't want to be bothered," she said. Got me. I said, "Go ahead and watch your movie if you want." She went upstairs with her salad. I wonder if McGwire hit any homers today. I have to pick up my serviced radiator tomorrow.
Labels: Twenty-Something Hollywood Love
posted by johnz at 11:49 AM
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