August 29, 2007

Last night I met a lady from L.A., she worked for Atlantic Records in A&R. I was very impressed, she seemed young and smart and even though I don't know what A&R means, she has a business card so I'm sure it's important. She asked me what I do, besides bartending and I had to think about it. I thought of Bukowski and told her I was a writer - but it felt thin and empty. I told her I was a disenfranchised film school student that dropped out and took writing classes. That I was working on my first novel. I didn't lie to her because I wanted to sleep with her, I lied to her because I felt like creating some one else, someone good.
As I left work last night one of the members of the private club I bartend at gave me a cigar and I eagerly smoked it on the way home - like a good dog who's been tossed a bone.
Shit like this is swirling in my head like a tornado about to touch down on a trailer park. I've been writing my whole life but I'm not really a writer, I'm not really that talented and I'm not fishing for complements. Sometimes, things just bubble into my brain and I can't stop myself.
I've started to drink beer, I don't know who I am anymore.
The other day, a girl told me I was the square who was cool on his time off, also that I had a hot body under my uniform. I wanted to tell her that I loved dark chocolate but given the sensitive nature of my comment I didn't know if it was appropriate.
I toy with the idea of writing a novel about Santa Fe, about the people and places I knew when I lived there. Drug dealers and debauchery on a grand scale for such a small town. This always makes me laugh.
I find my life is a collection of "to be continued" titles that I'm working on. My friendships are laissez-faire affairs set to stun and my ego bigger then my...well it's not that big.
Slowly life is slipping by an adventure of who's who's whooshed by in a comedy of would've and almosts. Creating characters and forgetting to write them, living them and forgetting about before.
All, this sitting in a park in the city, watching teeny tiny asian girls walk big bad bull mastiffs.
Cop cars and ambulances scream by in a staccato cry of contentment and cautious buses bellow, smog free electric bumper cars headed down the hill and into oblivion.
Eating the last of my cookies, wondering - where, where the time's gone by?
A few seconds till I'm 27 sitting on the cusp of Pacific and Gough, lounging till I'm going...going...gone.