You remember how people used to ask “if you could be a superhero what power would you want?” Well in LA everybody would want to fly. Then, of course, the skies would be crowded, gridlocked, and Paul Haggis would produce a supernatural version of Crash.
So thank God or Ra or Allah that we cannot fucking fly.
I’m in the habit now of taking whatever bus I see. I want the 305 because it will take me up the hill and down a block in the opposite direction, which is still better than being at the bottom of the hill. Catching the 305 when it’s three to five minutes late is as perfect as my world gets right now. Unfortunately, the MTA can’t be trusted. So if the 550-drop-me-off-at-the-bottom-of-the-fucking-hill bus comes first then I have to take it, because I don’t know if the 305 is going to show up. Keanu might hijack it. The driver may stop off for a carton of Kools. Who knows. I’m not risking it.
I think it’s kind of sad that, in this world, getting to work is often times harder than work itself. I’ve been wearing a different pair of clothes to work because by the time I arrive I’m wetter than a fake teenager on Dateline’s “To Catch A Predator”. I have to dry myself and then switch into my work clothes.
Getting to work takes exercise. Getting to exercise takes exercise. I walked a mile and a half the other day just to lift weights.
Insecurity is a motivational tool.
I feel kind of embarrassed when I open my backpack to take out my peanut butter sandwich – which is wrapped up in a plastic Ralph’s bag because I don’t have baggies – and my fast food cups fall out.
Yes, I’ve been saving fast food cups for free refills.
When you ask for “water” in LA, a lot of times they’ll give you a clear Dixie cup that isn’t much bigger than what you piss in at the doctor’s office. That way, even if you get Sprite, overzealous Carl’s Jr. employees who believe in the “Career Opportunities” bullshit they read on their job applications can see the fizz bubbles rising to the top.
“No es agua!”
“Shit, I just paid $5.80 for the Six Dollar Burger. Give me a fucking break. Un break fucking.”
July 4 in LA is confusing because I can’t tell if what I’m hearing is gunfire or fireworks. The cheering leads me to believe it’s fireworks, but I imagine a successful turf-gain would elicit the same emphatic “whoo’s!” from urban youths who are getting tired of their Xboxes.
I go grocery shopping. Want to get a shitload of Chef Boyardee ravioli (cheap) but then I remember Maurice has one pot and never washes it. I’m starting to hate that long-haired gypsy poser – especially since I found out that it’s more than likely that Alex and I are paying two-thirds of his rent. Fuck his new-age, medicine man bullshit. Fucking bison salesman. He didn’t say shit to us the other day because he thought we forgot the rent. Then, of course, once he finds a thousand dollars cash on the corner of his bed, he sticks his head in our room and asks us if we’re enjoying the city and if we want him to show us any cool “spots” around town, which probably translates to this:
“Now that I’ve fucked you, would you like me to point you to the nearest make-your-own-dreamcatcher shop?”
Does Maurice’s god shower?
I see a gay couple walking down a straight road and find this amusing.
Also, I know Asian women are somewhat of a commodity to straight white males? Are Asian men the same to gay white males?
The bugs are taking a toll on me. Every morning I wake up to a new itch. Now that I’ve said that, I realize that a successful hooker could say the same thing.
I talk on the phone with Kimberly. Tell her I’m worried the city is going to take my soul. She says I’m too aware for this to happen. I tell her she’s not living in Bret Easton Ellis’s “Less Than Zero”.
I think things might be easier for me in LA if I was born without a soul.