Everything in a room can be broken.
For over two hours I sat on the wall on the top floor of a five story parking garage, watching vehicles file in and occasionally file out. The runways revolved, from where I sat, in a two-lane spiral down to the bustling January afternoon sidewalks below, sucking up machinery and people and occasionally spitting them back out. It wasn’t quite four
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He wanted to add some color to the sketches but the hours were fastly waning and sooner or later there should be some sleeping. So he threw the pencils over the balcony, listening for the distant twin echos of their fall while struggling for a comfortable position on the couch. The morning sunlight was already starting to filter in through the blinds. One pop; that was a pencil. Shortly after came another. So the pencils met their doom.
The next morning he woke, showered, took in some eggs and a slice of toast. Some orange juice that tasted bad. Green panda tie (the one he found on that girl underwater by the old bridge).
Train tracks rattled, windows whistled; the panes were cold, as was the glass, and it was much too cold out not to wear a hat. More than ever it was starting to feel like it did up north, and that was no good at all. The conductor introduced himself as Theodore, which made the boy with the hat smile. He had flowers tucked into his back pocket. In his front pocket, a folded poem he’d written blindfolded a few nights ago, hoping to read it out loud for a girl he planned to meet at the stock exchange on Berlin Street, wearing the panda tie, wishing he couldn’t remember every dream he had.
He thought momentarily of tornadoes, and then of how nothing gets better than the time he spent up north on 13th Avenue. Nothing compared to that at all, but still he had the flowers, and the poem, and no matter what the sketches described there would be no dichotomy today. There would be nothing like that at all.
At seven o’clock sharp the train conductor came to the door and asked the boy with the hat if he’d like to take in breakfast.
“No thanks,” said the boy. “I’ve had breakfast already.”
“Suit yourself,” the conductor returned, unafraid to avert his eyes before shutting the traincar door. “You’ll find out for yourself what a horrible mistake all of this is. When it’s finally too late.”
That man resembled a restaurant waiter from one of the sketches, which was remarkable.
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tell me something i don't know.
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John Sheen
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Bringing Yoko Ono to anyone's party is so beyond not cool.
Take care. And get back with me soon. I'll be awake and dreaming.
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A: When I was fifteen years of age my family moved from the Hollywood Hills to a six bedroom Spanish manse in West Beverly. For two months the air conditioner suffered sputtering noises the likes of which no carpenter or airconditioning expert in the metro area was able to truly understand. On the third month my father moved us, including mother, myself and two sisters, to a cottage in Monterey while a world renowned Scandinavian cave explorer/photographer by the name of Ritz Galloway explored the air conditioning vents inch by inch along with his crew of two (a pair of brothers Ritz met while battling infected rhinoceri in Venezuela). The excavation of our house by these three gruff, weather-beaten and knowledgeable gentlemen (all much lauded in a 1983 cover feature in National Geographic and a four-page 1987 spread in Time), which included tearing out the heating duc(k)s and splaying them out across the front lawn, went so far as to require permission from the city to dig up an entire half-acre of land surrounding front carport of the house. Neighbors went on holiday during the construction and for three whole months our little corner of West Beverly was a madhouse. City officials from three towns over, in a desperate attempt to unman the trio, tried taking my father to the Supreme Court, but in a moving argument from an aging Clarence Darrow, the conditions of my family's unruly historically English background came to light and thus our case was dropped; the secrets the District Attorney from three towns over must have been hidng suddenly became unimportant, and his arguments were referred to in local newspapers as "coquettish" and "without flair."
While in Monterey, on the other hand, my father had enrolled me at Juliard, where I studied the piece 'Romeo & Juliet' by Willian Shakespeare. To coincide with the play's 130th anniversary, our class dissected the linguistic history of the story, a piece of work that had been written in a scant 23 days, and had the entire dialog completely memorized from stage directions to mood narratives by the author which appeared only as scribbled nonsense on the original manuscript. Our 30-person troupe then performed the entire play, from start to finish, in unison, at the Baxter Theatre in New York City and again at the opening party preceding the 1983 Oscar Awards.
Meanwhile, back in West Beverly, Ritz Galloway and the Brothers Venezuelan had discovered the source of the sputtering in our $2,000,000 air conditioning system. The gruesome details of the Federal investigation which followed were written about in Rolling Stone Magazine, Life Magazine, Time, and two issues of National Geographic (not to mention raves reviews in the New York Post).
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otherwise, it's cool that good things come out of your petty troubles.
...that is, if you didn't make that one up.
i've never tried cheese fries. have you?
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You mentioned fries before. I let it go, figuring you were poking fun at the "poor man's double baked potato". I don't want you mentioning any foods that are available to the public for ninety-nine cents, babe. What the ass is that all about? Singer/songwriter Beck once tried pulling that fry question on me. That is why he's touring with that no talent ass band the Flaming Lips, rather than Coldplay. I haven't paid less than 80 dollars for a meal in 7 years. Susan Sarandon was on the set of "Dead Man Walking" and we ordered Chinese and watched the dailies for the day prior. You better get your act together if you want to fly to Cape Verde with me this weekend. Cesaria Evora loves to eat with class.
If you look good enough, maybe I'll paint your picture.
LY.
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if fries are associated with poor men, than count me out of the fry game. no need to mention how fries would completely destroy my girl-ish figure, contribute to my mild teenage acne, and make me look dirty because i'd be eating them with my bare hands, thus ruining my social life. disgusting.
...today i spent about a half hour parked outside of burger so that i could eat in between classes and make phone calls without distractions. but hey, don't worry, by no means was i eating a large order of fries that costed my wallet a mere dollar and fourty-nine cents. nor did i take advantage of the free water.
sinful, fries are. and they probably did nothing for my mood. but they were a fine temporary fix.
however...i still wished i was eating a more home-made version of fries. mmm.
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Anyway, what kind of fries did you have? By the looks of your account on the details of the day, I would likely be moved to believe you were parked outside of a “Burger King,” but what with the structural faux paus I’m not exactly sure.
Those bastards always prepare the coldest goddamned fries.
Oh shit. Gotta run.
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awakeandreaming, babe, how are you? I read your post. Cute post. It was a pretty expensive post too. It cost one of my editers their job. Not to mention the deduction on his paycheck to pay for the laptop I broke over his goddamn head.
Picture this; hundreds of movie stars, thousands of rockstars, beautiful beaches and all the liquor and paella you can handle. I'm going to be going to see Cesaria Evora's comeback concert in Cape Verde this weekend. I went on the road with her a few years ago and she invited me to share this special moment with her. Sitting by my side on the private jet is Carlos Santana, June and John Carter Cash, Mr. John Sheen, and your replacement, "Saved by the Bell the New Class" star Sarah Lancaster. She just got done shooting a small role in Steven Spielberg's "Catch Me if You Can." She hates french fries.
LY.
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