January 14, 2014

January 14, 2014

I woke up with not a hangover, which was an odd feeling for me.  Usually when I open my eyes in the first thing in the morning the pain makes me close them as fast as possible.  I try to pretend its a cold that is going around or an allergy attack of some vague sort, but the fact is I am a huge fan of Charles Shaw red wine.  All sorts of red, as long as the color is red and it stains my round white table.    This morning I woke up to some painful process of writing that as usual took me to places that I didn't need to go to.  What I did need to do is have lunch with one of my best friends Jenny at Mohawk Bends.  Most of the dishes there are vegan or vegetarian, but it is sort of really good trash food at the same time.  She ordered a healthy looking salad, but I went for Avo and Chips, which is fried avocado and of course french fries.

Since it was noon (approximately 12:03 pm) I ordered a glass of Chardonnay which was $9 per glass.  My meal itself cost $12, and I hate the fact that my wine was almost as expensive as the food.  Perhaps through my upbringing, I always felt all beverages should all be in the $2 or $3 range.  Even alcohol!  

Jenny was very excited because she started reading the works of Pierre Loti, who to be honest, I knew very little of.   But anyone who wrote a book called "Flowers of Boredom" is OK with me.  Jenny is very much of an adventurer of body and mind.  Although I never shared the body part of her adventure we have shared literature that was important to us over the years.  I was more of a Yuki Mishima man myself.  I always liked the idea of a writer dressed in an uniform, and if he was photographed by Cecil Beaton, or made into a film by Joseph Losey better yet.  Sadly as far as I know Mishima was neither photographed by Beaton nor made into a film by Losey - nevertheless Jenny didn't know that, so as long as I tell these 'facts' loudly enough, she will of course believe me.  I always prefer the images by Beaton than say a photographer like Garry Winogrand.  Too much realism destroys the illusion of fantasy.

After lunch we went a couple doors down to visit my new favorite record store Blue Bag Records.  Happily they just received a shipment of 7" EP's from the 1950s.  I purchased around 20 titles, all from that era.  After saying goodbye to Jenny and thanking her for the meal (as a principal I always have someone else pay for my lunch) I rushed back home to photograph and play my new (although technically old) records on my sort of new, but old portable turntable.   I can look back today where I didn't have a hangover, had lunch (paid for) with a great friend, and surrounding myself with the beauty of music not processed by the 21st Century.

Drafthouse Films to distribute Michel Gondry's "Mood Indigo" (Foam of the Daze)

Boris Vian's hero Duke Ellington 

At last!  Sometime this year us Americans will be able to view Michel Gondry's version of Boris Vian's classic "Foam of the Daze" (L'écume des jours).  The film will be called "Mood Indigo."  No official release date as far as I know.

Read about it here.   

http://drafthousefilms.com/blog/entry/drafthouse-films-to-deliver-michel-gondrys-mood-indigo

January 13, 2014

January 13, 2014

Usually I don't fall into a deep sleep on an airplane, but I did and when I woke up I felt totally misplaced being on a plane.  Perhaps because I was dreaming I was in my grandparents house in Topanga canyon, which was a home that brought me a sense of security and happiness.  Not Topanga mind you, but just the home in the Fernwood era of the canyon.

I have heard that the great TV comedian Ernie Kovacs died in a car accident in the canyon, but I think it was on Sunset Blvd, near the Beverly Hills Hotel. Nevertheless the image of Kovacs on TV as well as Robert Stack in "The Untouchables" brought a certain amount of joy to my youth.  I often imagine that I was dancing with Gwen Verdon at my grandparents' house.  I can't imagine why, due that the staircase from top floor to bottom was very narrow.  I can't imagine a dancer would find this staircase or house even remotely interesting.

The strange thing about the house in Topanga was that it was small.  Basically an one bedroom house with a small living room and a kitchen and dinning area downstairs with a large property surrounding the home.  But when I dream about the place there is all of sudden additional space - from the bedroom area.  It goes on to another part of the house, with an additional bathroom.  This only existed in my dream, but the funny thing is that I rarely ever go into my Grandparents' bedroom.  Not exactly off limits to me, but just a place that I never go or play in.  Nevertheless this room in my dreams becomes an enlarged space.  It seems that the expanded place has no one really living there, or maybe used as a vacation home?

Many years later in that home I would read the complete works of Jean Genet as well as the magnificent biography on Genet by Edmund White.  it amazes me that I would think about all of this somewhere over the Pacific ocean in very comfortable plane.

January 12, 2014

January 12, 2014

I wondered around where I used to work, Book Soup, looking for a book that I ordered for the store, hoping it didn't get sold, because I really wanted to read it today.  Charles Perrault is a favorite of mine due to the fact that I was raised with his fairy tales.  I can never get enough of "The Sleeping Beauty" or "Little Red Riding Hood."   My Mom used to read them to me as a child, and even though I can never remember the location or that whole day, I do have strong memories of her reading these stories to me.  So once I was old enough to read them by myself, it was like another texture was layered on my memory of these stories.  To bounce out the fairy tales I also purchased Haruki Murakami's "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle" as well as a collection of short stories by Jack London.

Afterwards I took the bus line No. 2 to Amoeba Records to purchase   vinyl copies of Tex Ritter and Ray Price.  I never had an understanding or appreciation for Country recordings, but I decided I needed to make a giant leap into this world, with both feet first than head.   My wish was to find a 10" version of their albums, because I wanted something from the 1950s to give it that authentic appeal, or what it is like to discover something from that era.  But of course that is really impossible, because I am going back on someone else's nostalgia.  Odd enough I really don't have that feeling for the past, so I need to either share or ride piggy-back on someone else's desires for the past.  Luckily I found everything I desired, at that moment.

When I got home, I photographed all my new possessions.   It is not enough just to have the books and recordings, but I also needed a photo representation of some sort as well.  Photos to me are second-hand objects, a remembrance of things past.

"The Stray Bullet: William S. Burroughs In Mexico" by Jorge Garcia-Robles

University of Minnesota Press ISBN: 9780816680634

It's odd but I never read a bad book on William S. Burroughs. As a writer I think he's great, as a human being, I don't know. He's a fascinating personality that's for sure, but it seems to me that he's a natural nightmare for the National Rifle Association. I can sort of understand someone who is involved with gun culture, but I can't put my head around someone who loves guns even after shooting his wife by mistake. That, would make me give up firearms, but alas, Burroughs kept his interest in firearms for the rest of his life. That part of him I don't like. 

"The Stray Bullet" is a fascinating book written by a Mexican journalist Jorge Garcia-Robles that covers Burroughs stay in Mexico. In detail it goes into the shooting of Burroughs' wife Joan and what happened before and after that tragedy. Her death has always been kept at as a distance with respect to Burroughs writings and commentary. Although he said that was the moment that he became a writer, but it struck me that he never came to accept her death by his own foolish behavior. In that sense not a very nice man. Seeing the two photographs of Joan's body in this book is shocking. Because this is the first time I have been confronted with her death in a graphic manner, and it does leaves one with a bad taste for the Burroughs image. 

It is also interesting that he had no interest whatsoever in Mexico as a culture, either in its history or popular arts. Him and Joan basically just fed their addictions... and that's basically it. In many ways Burroughs world is a very solitude and protected landscape. He risked danger but always by choice. On the surface he's a total noir type of personality, but his weakness is all over the place. "The Stray Bullet" is a sad book, but its interesting that it is written in the point-of-view of a Mexican who appreciates the art of Burroughs, but also quite frank about a man with a lot of faults.

January 11, 2014

January 11, 2014

I had a dream last night that there was snowfall in Los Angeles.  I looked up at the sky and a snowflake fell right in the middle of my eye and it stung me.  I woke up in my little tatami mat room in Meguro, Tokyo.  The first thing I see is the window with a tree that has snow on it.  Usually I'm cold, because Japanese houses don't normally have centralized heating, but alas, I didn't feel the morning chill.  i got out of the futon, went to the toilet and then back to the futon.

 I had a hard time focusing on what day it is and usually when I travel, I have a hard time focusing on location.  Perhaps due to jet lag i have awakened in the middle of the night not knowing where I am, yet familiar with the room.  It is almost like if my room was traveling with me.  But now I know I'm in Meguro and it never snows in Los Angeles.  The really odd thing is I heard Slim Harpo's "I'm a Kingbee."  It took me awhile but I think the music was coming from the outside.

 I put my t-shirt and pants on and went out.  Once I opened the door the music immediately stopped.  I heard the crows outside, and normally that is normal.  There is something so disturbing about the sound of those birds.  I often felt that they were having a conversation about me, and therefore because they have 'crow' language, they can speak freely among us humans.  I closed the front door, and immediately the Slim Harpo song starts up again.

January 10, 2014

January 10, 2014

I arrived in Tokyo late last night, mostly due to the bus trip to the Meguro Hotel than the flight itself. The Narita Airport is about one and a half hours away from Tokyo, so the additional travel time is the thing that really knocks you out. It's bad enough to be in a plane for ten hours, but then having to take a bus for more travel time is the point where one says to themselves "I had enough." Nevertheless I am here because I wanted to surprise my friend Dennis Cooper on his birthday. Him and a friend of his are in Japan for the next two weeks, and I thought "wouldn't it be a good surprise if I just showed up in Japan to see him for his birthday."

From Meguro where I normally stay, I went to a coffee shop in Shibuya, where I heard that he goes to every morning at exactly 10:15. He's been to Tokyo /Japan once, and is a well disciplined figure with respect to scheduling. As a creature of habit he always shows up at this particular coffee shop every morning he's in Tokyo.

My plan was to wait around the cafe as a lurking Rasputin, maybe behind an over sized potted plant. And once he gets in line for his coffee I would just appear behind him in that line, and bingo, tell him happy birthday.

But odd enough, while I was waiting at the Doutor Coffee shop, he doesn't show up. First of all many of the customers here was looking at my way and wondering why I was hiding behind the potted plant for a half n' hour or so. I was so puzzled, because I know Dennis spent time in Hawaii, and Doutor Coffee has a plantation on that island just for the purpose of supplying coffee to this shop and its chain in Japan. A change of plans made me purchase a cup of coffee and I found a vacant seat by the water sculpture, which is one of my favorite spots to sit and drink coffee. As I have mentioned I am not a big fan or 'real' nature, but I greatly admire 'fake' nature. This sculpture represents nature to me, without being really nature and I love that.

At this time it seemed obvious that he won't appear, so after drinking my coffee I walked down to Tower Records, which is only a block away from the coffee shop. I went on the third floor, where they have American music, and I thought I should buy Dennis a CD. For whatever reason I thought it should either be a Johnnie Ray or Max Roach CD. For the life of me, I couldn't really analyze the reason why I would focus on those two artists for Dennis. I don't think he even likes that type of music. But I'm known in the free world as the worst gift giver ever. God knows that most people return my gifts, and usually I am pretty happy about that, because my gifts are normally what I would want as gifts.

I bought a compilation of Ray's recordings called "Cry" which is put out by Bear Family, a great label out of Germany, and Max Roach's "We Insist," which is normally a very hard album/CD to find. I can only hope he'll like it, if not, he will just return it back to me. Which is perfectly OK because I don't have either album in my collection.

JOE ALBANY... A JAZZ LIFE 1980 Complete 60 min. Feature Documentary Film plus book review of "Low Down" by A.J. Albany

A hard to put down, and for a very good reason.  It's excellent.  This has to be the ultimate Jazz/drug/damaged youth memoir written by the daughter of jazz pianist Joe Albany, who on one level can be seen as a dad from hell, but one can still like him by the end of the book.   The one likable figure that does come out is the author A.J. Albany, who is an extremely good memoirist  and leaves the reader charmed by her  observant manner of picking the difference between the dirt and the stars.

Although her upbringing is troublesome at the very least, her intelligence and good taste comes through greatly.  I really like that she has a knowledge of the golden age of cinema while living in 1970's Hollywood, when it was dicey and not very nice, specially to young people damaged by the world of drugs and abandonment.  The one thing that does save her, we think, is her smartness, and the relationship between dad and her is both touching, because even though he fucked up big time, there is that bond between daughter and father that is pretty good.   But I think the daughter worked towards the bond more than dad, which is sad, but the reader doesn't fall into the world of pathos, because she has the spirit to survive, or at least we hope so - the book ends on a dark note.   One suspect that this dark note may have changed, but we're not sure till we read what happens later, and I hope she continues to write her adventure on to a page or two or another book.  

"Low Down" is without a doubt an important document on life on the edge in Los Angeles, as well in the twilight jazz world.  This small book reads well and fast.  Her focus on the teenage and young youth years does want one to read more, and that is a very good thing to have a desire for.

Below a fascinating documentary on A.J.'s dad Joe Albany.

January 9, 2014

January 9, 2014

When I went to New York City this past month I visited Margret who I haven't seen for ten or so years.  She looked great, in fact beautiful. We met at the Strand Bookstore at 7PM.  I was kind of nervous to meet her, and we agreed to meet at the TASCHEN floor, because its small and compact and would have been impossible to miss each other.  While waiting I looked at the Jane & Serge book that just came out, and it struck me how sad photo albums are -even in the happiest times, there is a sense of tragedy around the corner.  It is one of the reasons why I don't keep photo albums in my home.  To look at the good times just reminds one of the bad times, and that is often too painful for me.

Margret showed up, we hugged, and I almost (I say 'almost') forgot how great she feels when you have your arms around her.   She has aged like me, but is and will always be an attractive woman.  I never understood why we didn't take our relationship one step further, but sometimes these things are not in the cards, and it is what it is.

We walked down to Canal Street, to have some Chinese food, which to be honest wasn't so good, but I ate very little because I really wanted to dwell into Margret, and everything she stands for.  Or to put it more honestly, what I think Margret stands for.  Often we project our desires that seem real to us, but alas, it is just a photoshop image of what we think we want.

One of our most lasting (and never ending) conversations is our argument regarding the early years of Scott Walker's music comparing to the music he's making now.   It seems everyone loves Scott's music, but never the same period.  So many of my friends love the early material, but really have a hard time with his later music.  Margret and I, when we get together, have heated discussions regarding the career of our Scott.  I actually feel that there is no difference between his early music and his later stuff.   It is one long thread between the ages, and you can't ignore one aspect of his work, because it is really 'one' long piece of music.   She, like others, doesn't see it that way.

We walked up Broadway, to window shop, and usually we don't touch each other, but for some reason we found ourselves holding hands and even though we didn't say anything, it was kind of a shocking moment for the both of us.

I think we love each other, but the thought of love was much more powerful than the everyday version of it.  When we departed, we just waved goodbye to each other.

January 8, 2014

January 8, 2014

I met Elvis Presley when I was around 10 years old.  In Beverly Glen there is a park off the main street where every Saturday Elvis and his Memphis friends would team up to play touch football against, and mostly, the citizens of Bervely Glen Canyon.   My father would join these pick-up games occasionally and it seems to start up around 2:00 P.M.   I was with my father watching him play football, when one  of Elvis' buddies came up to me and ask if I want to meet Elvis. I said sure, or however a 10 year-old says 'sure' and he lead me to Elvis as we approached him towards his back.  He was sitting on the park bench by himself watching the games, and he was wearing a blue double-breasted jacket with crisp white slacks, a sailors cap, and wrapped around sunglasses.   His friend, who was directly behind Elvis at this point said to him "Elvis meet Tosh."   Elvis without turning around or looking at me stretched his arm and hand towards me and I put my little hand in his to shake.  He didn't say a word nor looked at me.

I never met David Bowie, but I did go to his Santa Monica Civic show in October 1972.  My father and mother took me, and I must have been around 17 or 18 years old.  It was my first time seeing such a 'production' in a rock n' roll show.  I was struck by him physically being on stage and the fact that his movements was very stylized and not overly emotional or friendly-like. About a year later I went to the Long Beach Arena to see his "Aladdin Sane" show, and again I was struck by his sense of theater, or his ability to raise the rock n' roll show into another medium.  I never seen anything like that before.  Also I was with a girl and her girlfriend ,and I liked the girl very much.  But alas, she never liked me the same way.  So the memory of this show is one of the highest of the highs, and the lowest of the lows.  The next time I saw him was at his Diamond Dogs show.  This was very special because Toni Basil got us tickets for this performance, and we sat next to Steve Allen and his wife Jayne Meadows, who were old friends of Toni's.  It was amazing to me that I was sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Allen, which at the time I felt I was on a TV chat show.  The last time I saw Bowie was where I used to work, at a bookstore.  He came in and pretty much purchased every new fiction hardcover book on that trip.  When he paid for his books, I was physically very close to him and I noticed the difference between his eyes.  One was a different color from the other and it was kind of breath-taking beautiful.

January 7, 2014

January 7, 2014

For the past week I have been growing a beard. But now I feel it is time to shave it off, and due to the thickness of my beard I decided to go to my local barber for a straight edge razor shave. I went to Bolt Barbers on Spring street near 5th in Downtown Los Angeles. The beauty of surrendering yourself to a barber is a wonderful thing. The only part I don't like is when they dip the chair and you're facing the ceiling. I have severe vertigo, so I pretty much keep my eyes closed during the shave, and I am also a tad fearful of the straight edge razor.

When I walked in I noticed there was a guy in his parked car in front of the barber shop and it seems like he was crying. What really made me notice him is his car, which was a Rambler American, I guess from the early 1960s. The shop has mirrors, so if I dare to open my eyes time-to-time I am looking at a reflection that shows the entrance of the shop, including the crying man in his Rambler. I was drawn to watch him, but couldn't keep my eyes on him due that I got dizzy.

When I did open my eyes I saw him with a container and he was pouring liquid over his car. It didn't strike me as being strange due that I was sort of blessed out by the ongoing shave. So I closed my eyes for awhile. I opened it again, and the driver was in his car, still crying. I closed again, and I think minutes later I opened my eyes and looking almost upside down through the mirror I saw him and his car on fire. It was seconds before it became a torch, I closed my eyes again.

It was this point that the shave was about over and I heard sirens. Firemen were yelling and they had a hose that was spraying high-pressured water on the burning car. I got out of my chair and paid I think $30 plus tip to my barber, and then I walked out, passing the burning car to my bus stop on Main and 4th.

January 6, 2014

January 6, 2013

Yesterday I purchased an old vinyl called "Liberace At Home" and it reminded me when I met Liberace some years back.  I was a young man around 20, and it was my first trip to Las Vegas.  I was wondering around the Fremont Hotel, checking out the one-arm bandits, when I was approached by a gentleman who told me I shouldn't really spend a lot of money on these things.  I told him that I was just passing time, with no purpose or plan.  He then told me that he is a friend of Liberace the entertainer, and would I like to go to his home with him.   I said sure.  He told me to meet him in the front of the hotel in a hour, and I did so. 

He came by with a small van, with three other guys.  All the guys were like me, alone, and it seems all of us never been to Vegas before.   it was a fascinating trip to Liberace's house, because we left the bright neon lights of Vegas for the desert highway.  One of us had to take a pee, and our host pulled over to the road, and we all went out of the van.   What struck me was the total silence of the desert, except you can hear something out there in the dry bushes.  Maybe a snake or some sort of larger animal.  I don't know, because I can't see anything in the pitch black landscape.  The only lighting was the headlights of the van and once in awhile a passing car.  

We eventually made it out to the house, and it was incredible looking.  It was an one-story mansion that's for sure.  A butler opened the door for us when we knocked.  He seemed kind of young to be a butler.  When I think of butler, I picture Jeeves from the great series of PG Wodehouse novels.   Someone older and British.  But he seemed to have a strong Southern California accent, and his hair looked like it was bleached blonde, not natural blonde.  In fact nothing in this household looked natural.  I immediately flashed on the novel "À rebours" (Against Nature) by the French writer Joris-Karl Huysmans.  Some would be creeped out by this, but I actually prefer artificial environment than something natural if you know what I mean.

Liberace showed up in the living room. He greeted each person, by taking his time, in getting the person's name, and small talk. When he came to me, he wondered where my name Tosh came from. I told him that I didn't know, but I imagine that it has something to do with the British slang word for "Tosh" meaning nonsense. He laughed when I told him this, and he sort of patted my hand. I immediately liked him. 

He offered us drinks, and as we sat around the living room, he wondered over to his piano. We're all talking and eventually he became totally lost on the keyboard. It was amazing to see his concentration on the music he was playing. If memory serves me correctly he was playing Beetoven's "Moonlight Sonata, 3rd Movement." Such a beautiful melody, and his playing was so passionate. Everyone became quiet, and when he finished the piece we all had tears in our eyes. Including Lee, as he was called among friends.

January 5, 2014

January 5, 2014

I read on Facebook that it was going to snow in NYC and I never ever been in the snow before.   I booked a red-eye on JetBlue to make sure that I arrive at the height of the snow storm.  Luckily I had no trouble with the flight into JFK.  The great thing is when I went to the taxi stand, that was the moment where I experienced my first time under a snow flake.  Except it wasn't one flake but a super lot.

   I had the taxi driver take me to the Jefferson Station in Bushwick, Brooklyn.  i wanted to go somewhere that was totally industrial, yet in the snow.  It took awhile and cost around $70 to get there, but once there after I paid the driver, I jumped out of the taxi, and experienced my first time walking in the snow.  It was odd because due to the heavy snow, I couldn't see where the curb off the street was.  I kept stepping on a pile of snow where it seemed that there was no ground underneath the white stuff.  I imagine to find an international market that was open that early in the morning. I bought an apple muffin and a large cup of hot coffee.

 I sat as close as I can to the door, so when it opens I can feel the freezing temperature  come in.  Strange enough when I am in Los Angeles, and its cold, I really feel it.  Here when it is around 17 degrees, the cold almost becomes abstract.  I hung out there with my large coffee being kind of scared because I thought there was a good change I would die on this trip.

   Around 10:am I got up and headed towards back to the Jefferson St station.  It was really difficult for me to walk on the snow for some reason.  Plus the fact that I never experienced the sensation of the snow hitting my face.  I really didn't like that feeling.  I made it to the station, and I was extra careful not to go face down the stairs.  My sixth sense told me that the stairs could be slippery.  I bought a MTA card and used it with no problem.  The L Line took me to Union Square Manhattan.  That is where I got off and I walked down Broadway to the Strand Bookstore.

 I went in, and I was so thankful to be in a warm store.  Almost too warm, but nevertheless I felt that since I made it here, there is a good chance I won't die on this trip.  I looked around for a book to read on my way back home later that day.  I found a hardcopy of "The Boy Detective: A New York Childhood" by Roger Rosenblatt.  I never heard of this book, but it seems to be about a writer who pretended to be a boy detective among other things, and  it covers two subject matters of my interest.  Childhood and detective fiction.  Also, even though it was a hardcover book, the size was perfect for a plane trip.

  I bought it, refused the bag, and stuff it into my coat pocket.  I found a taxi around the Strand area and went back to JFK.  Luckily there was no cancellation of the plane trip going back to Los Angeles.

BO DIDDLEY 55 Bo Diddley

Bo Diddley just had that genius touch.  Incredible guitar player, incredible writer, and just plain...incredible.

Dancing in the Street - A Rock And Roll History episode 1

A fascinating BBC multi-segement documentary on Rock n' Roll history.  This is part one and it is a narrative I know about, but still... it's great to hear these people tell their tale.  Watch it!

January 4, 2013

I just got back from a week-long trip and while I was away I had a friend stay and take care of the house. But now that I am back, he's still here. I would think it would be obvious that once I return, he would leave, even on the day of my arrival. But he doesn't move an inch outside the house nor does he remove his stuff. I should have known something strange about this when he replaced my couch with his couch. He also went through my vinyl collection, and seemed to got rid of it. In its place is his collection of records. What was really disturbing to me, was that when I went to bed that night (and afterwards) he would get in bed with me like it was his own bed. I was also a little peeved that he removed all my personal artwork off the walls, and replaced them with his own paintings. And to be totally honest, I am not that crazy about his paintings. I really need my own space, so now I am thinking of moving on and getting a small apartment somewhere in West Hollywood or in the Atwater Village area.

Reading In Translation: "Translating Music, Foam of the Daze by Boris Vian

Pianococktail from L'´ecume des jours (the old film version)

A wonderful write-up from the blog "Reading in Translation" regarding Boris Vian's "Foam of the Daze" translated by Brian Harper (TamTam Books)  Read it here:

http://readingintranslation.com/2013/04/17/translating-music-foam-of-the-daze-by-boris-vian-translated-by-brian-harper/#comments

January 3, 2014

January 3, 2014

I occasionally act in films and commercials, and through my agent I got a small part in a commercial for Sunkist Oranges. I flew into Switzerland to meet the director Jean-Luc Godard , who time-to-time has done commercial work. He's a man of few words, but once I arrived at his apartment he silently took photographs of me with a polaroid camera. He then had me sit by a table that was purchased in Ikea, and in front of me were three Sunkist oranges on a plate. As he brought out a video camera he told me to slowly peel the oranges. At first I did it too fast, and he got kind of angry and short with me. Once he replaced the peeled orange with a new one, I instinctually knew I had to peel this orange in a very seductive manner. He seemed pleased with my 'performance' and then I noticed that he had a wall of VHS tapes. What he told me is that he prefers to watch films on VHS instead of going to a movie theater or watching it on a DVD. It seems he purchases DVD's but then has them transferred to VHS. He invited me to watch a film with him, but I had to decline his nice offer, because I had to fly back home. The one thing that really stood out for me, is his eyes. He probably has the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on a human face.

January 2, 2014

January 2, 2014

I woke up around 2:AM, after an odd dream of watching myself in a movie projected at the Egyptian Theatre. I was in a scene where Jane Fonda,Charlotte Gainsbourg, and Mina Loy were talking about men, and i was just sitting at their table saying nothing. But I remember watching the film, thinking "I have no script and I don't know what I am supposed to do in this scene." I remember feeling anxiety about that, as well as being in the audience watching this film. Once woken I decided to get out of bed and wearing my red plaid PJs I went to Astro Diner down the hill from my house. I didn't feel I needed to get dressed, because one, it was in the middle of the night, and two, it's my neighborhood. I had a craving for a strawberry malt or milk shake. I haven't had one in years, and it just seemed that the moment was perfect to drink a malt by the googie-era large window facing Fletcher.

January 1, 2014

January 1, 2014

I woke up thinking that this is a new year, but alas, it feels very much like any other day. The one big difference is that I woke up in someone else's home. I haven't the foggiest idea who they are. But they seem to be nice. I went into their kitchen, and made myself a little breakfast. To my shock they only had whole wheat bread, and I'm pretty much devoted to Wonder's white bread. I did make a sandwich of sorts, but after making it, I didn't feel like eating it. So I wonder off to Ralphs super market to buy myself a loaf of Wonder's white bread. I went back to their house, but the door was locked and it seems no one was in. Luckily I found a window that was slightly opened on the second floor. I climbed up the tree, and once I got on the limb, I made a jump towards the window. Besides crashing into the glass, I was perfectly OK. And I didn't lose the grip of my loaf of bread. I went downstairs to the kitchen and made a proper sandwich.