Sunday, August 9, 2015

The Sunday Series: Sunday August 9, 2015

The Sunday Series
Sunday August 9, 2015

The stench that is America.  You can smell on one’s hair and clothes. It is just like cigarette smoke in a crowded bar.  After awhile, the smell of dirty smoke lingers on you like it was a 3D object.  Some days, I just want to throw myself over the Los Angeles River, but it’s not deep enough to drown, just to crack your head.   The "Martini Drinkers of Los Angeles" is the only club that I’m a member of.   I have kept the membership up, even days or months, where I have nothing to eat.  Which due to my long habit of martini drinking, I always have the olive instead of the lemon peel.  Lemon peel is more delicious, but with hunger, the olive can be filling.  The Queen of the Tarts just came into TAIX bar, and I make sure the remaining olive is in my mouth, because he will take it for sure.  Us hunger boys can smell the hunger off others. 

The girls here are really something.   Sunday night is group sex night.  Buy one drink, the additional drink is free.  I go with my baby, and we do the can-can in front of the band stage.  The drumming is no-stop-keep-going.  Someone told me the Kray twins own this place.  I should have guessed from the interior.  It’s very rear if you get my drift.  The woman at the bar, she is by herself. I think she’s an actress.  I have seen all her movies.  Even the bad ones.  But wait, she looks too much like her, so it can’t possibly be her.  Is it?

I’m with the boys, and we’re talking about the waitress.   Each time I go to town, I see her face, serving the drinks, without a sense of violence in her movement as she approaches the table.  I rather be with the boys, now that I’m dressed up like a man, and standing up on my own two feet.  We have our matching cufflinks, and ties, and the blue oxford button up shirts - we stand together or we fall individually.  

I’m so drunk, that when I leave the bar, and look up at the night sky, I started to count the stars, but eventually I lose count and would have to start over again.  My partner in crime was supposed to write down the numbers as I counted them off, but he has other things on his mind. Shoot the stars out, because they’re so distracting, yet so beautiful.  I like to smell the night air, because there is something so deadly or sleepy that’s out there, and I feel like I’m walking on someone else’s property.   I tiptoe back into the bar with my pal, and we continue our drinking.

One drinks after another, and I’m scared to even look at the final bill.  I don’t. I just hand the waitress my card, hoping that she will make it go away.  My life as told through the eyes of the beautiful young waitress. She is so much smarter than me.  She is the one with the mostist.  As my eyes glaze over the table, I focus on the half full (I’m an optimist) glass of whisky, and I think “Dear God, now what?” 
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