Back in L.A.

Turns out the basement of Pink Dot is a covert hybrid dragon couch spawning center. Apparently, the idea was to breed a creature that could be summoned to the houses of Pink Dot customers who were in need of an immediate sitting apparatus, an extension of the Pink Dot brand, the ultimate in convenience. However, the project is currently in the preliminary experimental stages, and the results are still unpredictable. It so happened that Gingerbread, the first full-grown dragon couch to spawn, had a taste for computers, and when I ventured down below one crisp California even, Gingerbread caught me by surprise and ate my bookbag. Luckily, I had the nerve and wherewithal to eviscerate the scaly bastard’s body cavity and retrieve the bookbag before his caustic stomach juices ate away at all my jpegs. Anyways, I my computer has been drying on the windowsill of my studio for the last several days, thus the lack of posting.

MONDAY

After completing an internet log post, I skulked back to the studio, physically weakened from all the words I had recently excreted. I Barely managed the strength required to scale the craggy precipice that is my staircase, and dove headlong into the soft swamp of my bed. After sinking down into the murky deeps therein for a few hours, I resurfaced and awoke, refreshed and decked in bog scum. I rinsed off in the shower and proceeded to delight in some premium distilled beverages. It was about this time that Oscar phoned me and informed me of an informal soiree that would be going down at his place that evening. We made arrangements for Ralphie to come scoop me up in the coupe, and before long he had arrived. I met Edwin, Ralphie and Oscar’s mutual friend, and we headed to Oscar’s place. The drive was nice; Ralphie had just got his permit and was doing a fine if not tentative job of transporting Edwin and I. After about a twenty-minute drive, we met up with Oscar and proceeded directly to the grocery store a couple blocks away for supplies. We secured two 18-packs of Miller Light, and headed back, prepared to pound (pound being the exclusive term used to describe drinking alcohol in their circle). We arrived back to Oscar’s one-room apartment, which was sparsely furnished (only egg crates filled with blues and punk records, a stack of books, and a shelf full of DVDs, with walls spackled with classic media posters), and began pounding. Oscar DJed for the night, providing a soundtrack of hypermellow delta blues and upbeat anarchopunk for our capers. At first we just sat around and cold kicked it live, shooting the breeze and the moon intermittently. I learned quickly that Edwin’s nickname was Pac-Man, and throughout the night he was given shit for his haircut, which was dangerously close to a flattop. We pounded, played some Mike Tyson’s Punch Out and Tetris on a vintage NES system, and I taught them how to play Circle of Death, a drinking game. Around 2 a.m. me and Pac-Man fell asleep on the floor. I woke up around 4 a.m. to the sound of Ralphie and Oscar returning from buying yet more beer at the store, and discussed the nature of relationships and the general state of things with Oscar, which was nice. This brand of conversation seems pretty inevitable after a night of heavy imbibing, and even though I know the profundity isn’t as real when cultivated with alcoholic real, it is still very enjoyable to connect so deeply with someone without the fetters of reticent sobriety. I fell asleep once again, which was made difficult by the sleep thrashings of the utterly plastered Pac-Man (who Oscar dubbed “Eric Flattop,” as in Eric Clapton). Also, at one point in the night Pac-Man sneezed like, I shit you not, 30 times in a row. It was nuts, but I treasure nights like these because of the intensity of it all; the uncomfortable floor, groggy sleep-crusted mornings, friendly ribbing and drunken revelry. Also it was the first time I spent the night at somewhere other than my studio, which seems noteworthy.

TUESDAY

We woke up early, at 8 a.m., to get Pac-Man to court, which he had to go to due to a jaywalking charge he had caught a few months back. I got home around 9:30 and had to immediately make my sludgy saunter to the bus stop in order to get to the CityBeat on time. It was uneventful; I did calendar listings all the livelong day and zoomed home on the bus without incident. The remainder of the day was spent lolling and lazing on the bed, watching episodes of Kids in the Hall; I have all the seasons on my computer. I find Kids in the Hall to be excellent every time I go back through and watch the episodes; it’s timeless sketch comedy with tinges of both dramatic intensity and absurdist attunement. Kevin McDonald’s physical comedy and Scott Thompson’s dramatic chops have stood out to me recently, but the entire cast is fantastic and the humor still rings true for me today, even though it is nearly a score old. It’s original, idiosyncratic, and is to yr eyes as Salisbury steak is to yr stomach. Well, at least to my stomach.

WEDNESDAY

Another day stoking the inferno of inflection, the conflagration of consonants, the pyre of prose, the fire of free-form journalism that is the CityBeat. I did a couple more record reviews, still the little 125-word nuggets of noise interpretation, and used the rest of my time there to feverishly compile and arrange a database of book reading listings for the calendar.

THURSDAY, FRIDAY, SATURDAY, SUNDAY

Working at both Doughboy’s (Noon-4) and Pink Dot (6-2). Each day, it went down a little something like this:

Awake at 10:30 a.m. Stretch and yawn for exactly 17 seconds. Whip up some instant coffee and clumsily cull all the necessary artifacts for the day (laptop, notebooks, pens and pencils, magic beans, sodas, hoodie for the cool night, a lock of David Hasselhoff’s hair). Skip furiously to the bus stop, pirouetting intermittently. Attempt to stand up straight. Give up on standing up straight. Look for some shade to stand in. Climb aboard the bus, further my training in the art of standing and walking down the center aisle without using the rails to keep balance. Nearly break my face after a jerky stop/start on the part of the busdriver. Curse under my breath and attempt to save face. Consider reading a book on the way, put it off in favor of gazing with unfocused eyes out the window at the seemingly endless thicket of concrete, plastic, neon and metal. Drag my heels to Doughboy’s. Arrive about noon. Get behind the counter, proceed to lean as often as possible, as hard as possible. Manage to feign friendliness with tips in mind. Eat a free sandwich while pondering how far I could throw an anvil. Complete all register counting and tip divvying. Smoke a square with Kenz and Tyler. Make my way to the bus stop at Wilshire & La Brea about 4:30. Catch the bus up to Sunset. Possibly encounter Ralphie, who rides the same bus to get to work. Do the Mississippi shake, and to hell with the consequences. Arrive at Pink Dot about 5:15. Shoot the shit with Oscar, who is usually working behind the counter and who usually gets off at 6, until my shift starts. Crawl into my cerulean crevice. Glare menacingly at the phone until it rings. Work extremely efficiently, not because I care, but because I want the phone call to be over. Exchange mundane stories, niceties and platitudes with my fellow operators. Discuss interesting things with Ralph or Aaron or Dulani from time to time. Grin broadly and chuckle at the antics of Pedro. Observe the hyperhomophobic comedic stylings of my coworkers. Laugh politely. Attempt to keep my head above the sea of testosterone in which pink dot is inundated. Assent to my heterosexuality from time to time. Whittle some writing or drawing or missives to help disintegrate the suffocatingly thick pile of time. Stare. Stare. Push the bags of garbage and broken-down corrugated cardboard containers out to the dumpsters. Attempt to see how far I can accurately throw a full garbage bag. Accept my shortcomings as a trash tosser. Roll gleefully on the garbage cart back down the slight incline from the dumpsters to the side door of Pink Dot. About 2:30, Bid my farewells and begin an R. Crumb-like walk down the steep hill that is the stretch of down La Cienega between Sunset Boulevard and Santa Monica Boulevard. Possibly engage in conversation with fellow busfolk. Attempt to stay awake on the bus so I don’t miss my stop. Curse MTA for making the windows so damned comfortable. Get off at Vermont & Santa Monica about 3:15. Allow my eyes to gloss in quiet fluorescence of witching hour Los Angeles. Climb aboard the bus for the fourth time, scope the articulated corridor out for a pair of empty seats in which to stretch my spindly legs. Yank the international schoolbus chrome-colored cord after we pass 27^th street, sleepily thank the bus driver and hop down to the stoic pavement. Lumber home. Or, alternatively, due to the sleep deprivation delirium, fall into a dance fugue a la Christopher Walken in the Weapon of Choice video. This has actually happened; the streets of L.A. at 3:45 a.m. are a surprisingly good dance floor, with minimal spectators to impede yr physical expression of self. Consider taking the laptop out of my bag to watch a show before bed. Opt for going straight to bed. Wake up 6 hours later and repeat.

For all of you keeping score at home (this means you, Eugene), that’s about 50 hours of on-the-clock work in 4 days, or about 70 in 6 if you count CityBeat. But although it is exhausting just due to the sheer time consumed (as opposed to being exhausting due to being physically taxing, which it is not), it is also kind of nice to be working so much: I’m replenishing my savings account, making the most of my time, and having some memorable and wacky life experiences along the way. Add to that the fact that it will all be over in a couple weeks, and it is plenty bearable.

MONDAY

But it becomes less bearable when you have no days off; I spent the hours between 1 and 4 putting the finishing touches on some correspondence, and then was prepared to spend the rest of the day splattered on equal parts couch and carpet, allowing my eyes to bask in the VHS-rip glory of Kids in the Hall. But, no sooner had I begun to get buck naked and settle in for the day did Bora call and ask if I wanted to pick the 6 to 2 shift for the night. Perpetually unable to turn down extra work, what with the prospect of overtime and general dearth of funds, I acquiesced, and slithered out to the bus stop for some bonus Pink Dottery. The night ground by like so many noses against millstones, and without incident, per usual. I went home and directly to sleep, soul slightly cramped from living in a cubicle, but pleased just the same at the prospect of extra dough.

TUESDAY

I managed to lug myself to Citybeat during ante meridian time, and spent the entirety of my workday continuing my databaserry, this time compiling comedy and cabaret calendar listings for Josh Sindell, the copy editor and reigning calendar guru what with Alfred absent. I had to dip out early, around 3:45, to venture off to Doughboy’s, at which I was scheduled to work 4 to midnight. Doughboy’s usually is only open from 7 to 4, but since it is directly adjacent, and actually connected, to the El Rey Theatre, Doughboy’s is open on nights when concerts are being held, with a small menu, consisting mostly of deep fried goods and simple sandwiches. For this shift it was me all by my lonesome as far as Front-of-House staff goes, with one cook and one dishwasher. We were pretty dead for the first half of the night, and got a little rush around 8. The work was easy enough, and I ended up making $20 in tips in addition to my regular minimum wage. I met an interesting person, a girl who works at the original Doughboy’s location on Highland, whose name, unfortunately, escapes me. I joined her outside for a Natural American Spirit Light, cigarettes ever being the conversational conduit, and we exchanged basic life information (school situation, plans in life, etc.). I learned that she is a sculptor who works a lot with film and actor media; she did a particularly interest-piquing project on the dichotomy between the Front-of-House and Back-of-House staff at the Doughboy’s where she works: She took pictures of all the employees and had them write down their wages and life dream/aspiration in their native language. She said the contrast was striking; most of the FoH staff were white people with aspirations of creating art, whereas the BoH staff where primarily of color and she noted that one of them cited their greatest dream in life to be getting their papers; becoming a legal U.S. citizen. Definitely some thought-provoking stuff; I feel like I meet someone new and interesting all the time around these parts.

WEDNESDAY

Since I was obligated only to work the monkeysuit shift at Citybeat, Wednesday was my closest thing to a day off for the past/coming week. Having sipped copiously from the big dipper the night before, I found myself chipper and energized with the power of starjuice in the morning and prepared to take the bull of the day by the testes, which is far more effective than all that horns nonsense, I feel. I started out the day by assisting Rebecca in completing the 7 Days section of the CityBeat, a calendar magnification where we pick one event occurring during each of the seven reading days of the publication and write about 100 words describing it. I did the last two days and also wrote the deks for all seven days, which are like little mini-headlines. After completing this Rebecca invited me outside for a Marlboro Medium, and we jawed for a spell. Rebecca complimented me on my writing ability, which I appreciated. She then reiterated the point, stressing that she was not just paying me lip service. This meant the world to me; as a person my only creative outlet is the twisting of words, primarily in a written manner. To receive a sincere compliment from an individual seasoned in the art is about the highest praise I can hope to receive, and it really does wonders for the morale and general mindset to receive encouragement of that nature. Rebecca then gave me some useful constructive criticism, saying that although I am a fine writer, I lack the self-starting requisite for successful journalism. I agreed, and explained as best I could, and trying not to sound like I was making excuses, my work situation and commute situation and how the lack of free/down time has made me relatively unmotivated/unable to actually get out and do the reportage required. We pondered this for awhile, and then Rebecca came up with what I think is a stupendous idea: a story called “A Week on the Bus.” It should be a breeze to write, and I feel like I can make it a pretty compelling human interest story. The reality in this story is just as good, and probably better, than any fiction I could conjure up, so I’m really excited about crafting it. I’ll make a post when it runs. I spent the rest of the day at CityBeat writing a 250-word review of Eef Barzelay’s latest album, which I found to be great. I returned to the house pretty burnt out, and, after eating some tunafish out of the can with a spoon, proceeded to fall asleep from 5-9. I awoke in a daze, and spent some time tidying the apartment. I fell asleep with the comforting Canadian cooing of the Kids in the Hall.

THURSDAY

Thursday was partial Day Off Part Deux: Eclectic Boogaloo, on account of I did not have to work at Doughboy’s for the late lunch shift. I took advantage of this insofar as I got copious sleep, but at the same time I obtained the valuable Zs at the neglect of my laundry, which desperately needs doing. I took a bath for the first time in years, which was pretty enjoyable, and which, kept in mind as the ocean-chilled breeze washed over me on the sidewalks, made me want even more to go to the beach. I left the house early in search of a Wachovia in which to deposit my Pink Dot check so I could take care of some outstanding bills, outstanding in the sense that they are really top-shelf, A-number-one, primo bills. Probably some of the best. Anyways, that was an utter failure, and after some half hour of urban layman peripateticism, I decided to cut my losses in favor of getting to work on time, which I did. I called the Wachovia number and found out that there is a branch not to far from CityBeat, so I suppose I’ll be making my way to that merry bunch of moneymasters in the near future. Even though the bank search was a flop, I had a novel moment during the time therein: In the process of exploring the unfamiliar streets down Wilshire past La Brea during the early afternoon hours (during which I am rarely out and about these days), I was struck with the feeling of refreshed immersion in the wild city; I was back in L.A. I guess there’s something about spending all of one’s time engaged in work indoors that can serve as a means of disconnecting one from their environs; it seems intuitive because you aren’t so much living in the city, per se, as you are living in a few units of business and transportation therein.