Untitled
Album covers are cooking in the desert heat. A contagious heat. And cold water is considered taboo by some, like sunshine for seattle.
Today I watched a lizard climb a wall in the 100+ degree heat and as soon as it reached the top of the wall, it began doing push-ups.
Life is different for the cold blooded.
It is a desert night and it is still hovering over 100+ degrees.
I must smell like fire to a lizard.
The grapefruit is plentiful in the trees and the season is said over, though hand-squeezed they offer a warm nectar - - and a luxury it is to wake with fruit hanging from the limbs of trees in the yard...
‘A study of smells shows that the scent of grapefruit on women make them seem younger to men...but not too young, like pink bubble gum.’ – study by the Smell and Taste Institute of Chicago.
On the first night in town, I met a black man who was sitting and puffing on a cigar infront of a Starbucks and who was friendly enough to engage my conversation with a smile (and I am not a Starbucks customer).
Like I, he had moved from Los Angeles, though months before, and so we both became even the more sympathetic.
The point of conversation came when a particular follow up that was made to fit could be used, and like the crest of a rollercoaster ride plunging downward, the often canted phrase free fell from my lips into the warm breeze finding its due moment like a perfect boxer- as I am not here for kicks, ‘So let me ask you a question...what do you think about 9-11?’ And like the many, his response didn’t attempt to feign ignorance, no, and not even a conscientious acknowledgement of the deed was offered – and our eyes kept direct contact. The way he received the question was an indelible sign that the conversation would be coming to an end, but not a vociferous one – though it was a checkmate strategy.
His answer he made clear, what was real and true for him was the reciting of lyrics from Motown songs and movie dialogues verbatim, and clear was his dance through the puffing clouds of cigar smoke, as he swayed throughout an empty ballroom. The charade was the kind that I had many times tango’d to, yet bemused I was, and enough to watch.
When he showed signs of fatigue, I held up a voting card where from under the stage microphone I stood, ‘Please don’t take offense with what I’m going to say, but, you don’t read much do you?’
The last day in Los Angeles, I was in the DMV where pictures of famous Hollywood stars like Greta Garbo and Humphrey Bogart line the walls. The Hollywood left could argue that anyting is better than a picture of George Bush, and I could thoughtlessly agree.
I stepped onto the sidewalk near Sunset and Vine. People were massed together, heads tilted back all eyes fixed on the sky. With so many people looking up I looked down, and what caught my eyes was the name ‘Orson Welles’ and the Hollywood star I stood upon.
Today I watched a lizard climb a wall in the 100+ degree heat and as soon as it reached the top of the wall, it began doing push-ups.
Life is different for the cold blooded.
It is a desert night and it is still hovering over 100+ degrees.
I must smell like fire to a lizard.
The grapefruit is plentiful in the trees and the season is said over, though hand-squeezed they offer a warm nectar - - and a luxury it is to wake with fruit hanging from the limbs of trees in the yard...
‘A study of smells shows that the scent of grapefruit on women make them seem younger to men...but not too young, like pink bubble gum.’ – study by the Smell and Taste Institute of Chicago.
On the first night in town, I met a black man who was sitting and puffing on a cigar infront of a Starbucks and who was friendly enough to engage my conversation with a smile (and I am not a Starbucks customer).
Like I, he had moved from Los Angeles, though months before, and so we both became even the more sympathetic.
The point of conversation came when a particular follow up that was made to fit could be used, and like the crest of a rollercoaster ride plunging downward, the often canted phrase free fell from my lips into the warm breeze finding its due moment like a perfect boxer- as I am not here for kicks, ‘So let me ask you a question...what do you think about 9-11?’ And like the many, his response didn’t attempt to feign ignorance, no, and not even a conscientious acknowledgement of the deed was offered – and our eyes kept direct contact. The way he received the question was an indelible sign that the conversation would be coming to an end, but not a vociferous one – though it was a checkmate strategy.
His answer he made clear, what was real and true for him was the reciting of lyrics from Motown songs and movie dialogues verbatim, and clear was his dance through the puffing clouds of cigar smoke, as he swayed throughout an empty ballroom. The charade was the kind that I had many times tango’d to, yet bemused I was, and enough to watch.
When he showed signs of fatigue, I held up a voting card where from under the stage microphone I stood, ‘Please don’t take offense with what I’m going to say, but, you don’t read much do you?’
The last day in Los Angeles, I was in the DMV where pictures of famous Hollywood stars like Greta Garbo and Humphrey Bogart line the walls. The Hollywood left could argue that anyting is better than a picture of George Bush, and I could thoughtlessly agree.
I stepped onto the sidewalk near Sunset and Vine. People were massed together, heads tilted back all eyes fixed on the sky. With so many people looking up I looked down, and what caught my eyes was the name ‘Orson Welles’ and the Hollywood star I stood upon.
posted by jackdeluxe at 3:25 AM
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