Saturday in L.A.

It's windy and oddly chilly here in L.A, but it's still sunny. It's Saturday, which means the Jews are on foot in Hancock Park. Traffic still sucks.

I was rattled awake early this morning by deafening Spanish-language talk radio and overly-loud old-person conversations invading my eardrums through my always-open windows. Or maybe it was the hangover, and associated unquenchable thirst, acquired after a day of solitary drinking/writing in my apartment. Whatever the reason, I laid in my bed for hours, unable to sleep, unwilling to get up.

At some point, I grabbed my laptop and decided to read the New York Times, figuring that would kill some time. I never read it. Instead, I responded to a long-lost ex-girlfriend's myspace message, read her blog for an hour or so, and then decided to type the entire chapter devoted to Whitney Houston in 'American Psycho' and email it to her for no apparent reason, other than the fact that she mentioned her love for Whitney Houston in a blog entry. I felt like I was wasting a lot of time; I was.

I got hungry and went to the grocery store, where I somehow spent $52 on cold cuts, bread, chips, salsa, granola, blueberries, and yogurt. In the wine aisle, which had a disappointing import selection (nothing from Chile/Argentina, always a good, cheap pick), a middle-aged man was loudly letting a young woman in on his bartending secrets, with regard to the use of sour mix. She tells him she drinks amaretto stoned sours. Who actually drinks that shit after freshman year of college? After they no longer go to huge frat parties and drink cocktails out of ten-gallon gatorade jugs and pass out in bushes on the way home (if they're lucky)? I'll tell you who--unattractive, unintelligent, overweight Ralph's employees who enjoy the conversational stylings of boring, unattractive middle-aged men reeking of a desire to have sex with almost any woman who is not their wife. I had to leave immediately, and so I have no wine.

As I parked my car down the street from my apartment building, the local bum couple was having another in a long series of lover spats. Allegedly, he DID go to visit her in the hospital, but when he got there, she had already left against doctor's orders. And then she didn't come 'home' for three days and he thought she was dead. And THEN he found out that not only was she NOT DEAD, but had spent $7 on Chinese food. Seven dollars! His mind was blown. She didn't say much. He circled her with raised fists, but she was able to expertly keep a palm tree between them. They were remarkably filthy, even for them. I guess it hasn't rained in a while. They didn't seem to notice me, thankfully, as I walked past with bags full of delicious food.

I'm supposed to play catch with a friend this afternoon and tell him about my recent experience as a particpant in a police line-up at the county jail (more on that later, I guess), but even though it's a beautiful day outside, I kinda just want to stay inside and watch movies and listen to records and maybe write for awhile and then go to sleep again. One of those days.