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.

The Yowl of Unresolved Cat Life

I took an eight hour nap today, after an extraordinarily late night, and now lie awake in the middle of the night, acutely conscious, being driven to the point of insanity by the guttural moaning, screeching, and mewling of an alleycat in heat. An alleycat that has dogged me for three accursed years now, disappearing occasionally, randomly (or is it according to some obscure pagan fertility
schedule?), seemingly only to ensure her vocal yearnings will never be so constant as to blend in with my sonic environment and cease to retain their full effect.

In my lonelier moments, as I lie unattended in bed, forced to compare my own sex life to that of cats, specifically to that of the one insatiable cat begging for cat-dick* outside my window, I find the plaintive wailings reverberating through the cement and brick alleyscape unbearably depressing for a host of reasons.

1. Why is it so easy for this cat to unabashedly ask for what it wants, while I find the mating process so fraught with awkwardness, difficulty, and disappointment?
2. Why is it that this cat seems to have so much trouble getting laid, despite its clear intentions? A human female would not have the same problem, should she spread her legs in an alley and shout for all comers to have a go. Maybe she's a really ugly cat?
3. Why can this cat never get enough? Are all cats this horny, or is this cat some sort of rare sex-obsessed feline? And, if so, is there a lucrative black market for these rare animals?
4. Would it be a good thing or a bad thing, for myself as well as for the species, if women behaved like this cat? Would I really care if it was bad for the species but really, really good for me?

The big question on my mind lately, though, is this: how can this cat get away with keeping hundreds of people awake for years? Am I the only one who dreams of leaning out my window with a night-scope-bedecked sniper rifle and putting her out of her/my misery? Are my fellow forced insomniacs so cowed by the threat of PETA-sponsored legal ramifications that they just grin and bear it? Or is this cat simply an expert at hide and seek, or some sort of preternatural master of disguise? ("I heard the cat moaning, but then all I saw was a discarded Fendi handbag, so I moved on...")

Another big question: does this fucking cat ever sleep? The easy answer, supported by years of circumstantial evidence, is 'no.' Or maybe minute-long catnaps throughout the day are all she needs, fittingly. Or maybe this is the real reason she moans and screams: she hasn't slept in three years either.

Regardless, I have no sympathy for this cat for any reason. I am bigger than it, and I will kill it if I get the chance, animal-rights supporters be damned. I'm no Randy Lenz, mind you--he of 'Infinite Jest' cat-stomping infamy--but, all the same, I wouldn't mind it too much if he came 'round my place sometime soon and did his thing.


*I never even thought about cats having dicks. And I now wish the thought had never occured to me, or that I could wash it from my brain. Oh, forgetful mind, don't fail me now!