karma's a bitch

On my way to my friend Xalox B's pad to make some music I had to stop and take a leak.

I saw a Carl's Jr. and I pulled in. I know that Carl's Jr. restaurants have open bathrooms where you don't have to pay to use them or buy something in order to be buzzed in... I'm sure that in the seedier parts of town where homeless people abound and use the men's room as their personal grooming spot there might be some protective measures, but this was the Valley and I'd used the john at this particular fast-food joint before.

I did my business and got inside my new truck. Technically, it's not new: my dad gave it to me as a gift when he bought himself a newer truck. But he kept it in great condition, and even though it's a '99 it runs fine. It sure beats the hell out of the junker I was driving a month ago!

I was about to start the engine and back out and resume my drive when I noticed an empty soda can in my cup holder. I wanted to get rid of it and put my brand new pre-paid cel phone in its place.

Normally, I would just open the door and let the can drop on the ground and drive away without a care in the world. Yes, I'm a litterbug. I know this about myself. As far as I'm concerned, any place where there's cement and pavement and concrete and blacktop is already ruined, so unless I'm in the woods close to nature and one with Mother Earth, I really don't care about throwing my trash anywehre I want.

Anyway, as I was about to sin against the environment I noticed a trash can only a few feet away. For some reason, I told myself that this time I should not be lazy and just get up, walk over to the trash and drop the soda can in like a good boy. I mean, it was only a few feet, right?

So I did the deed, but when I tried to get back into the truck I discovered I'd locked myself out, with my cel phone and wallet on the inside.

You see, I have this compulsion with locking the doors to any vehicle I drive. I am constantly reminding any passengers that accompany me to lock their doors. I guess in this day and age, where most cars have automatic door locks and such, most people have forgotten how to lock the door when they exit a vehicle. I say this because I have to remind nearly everyone who is with me to do this one simple task. It's not asking a lot, is it?

Unfortunately, my compulsion backfired on me. I found myself wondering how I was going to get into my truck in the parking lot. I asked some people if they had Slim Jims or change so I could use the phone and maybe call someone to pick me up and take me back to my place, where the spare key was buried beneath oodles of knick-knacks in my coffee table drawer. No one helped out, and I started to panic a little.

I decided to try and see if I could somehow force the lock on the cab's sliding glass rear window to open. I pushed on it with my right hand. I didn't want to break the glass-- I just wanted to put enough pressure to cause the plastic lock to burst open, therefore allowing me to enter the truck and open the door.

Instead, I hit it a tad too hard. The glass from one of the sliding panels broke, and before I knew it my right forearm was bleeding.

My first thought was, "Well, at least it's open!" I unlocked the passenger side door. Then I entered the cab and grabbed the keys. I took out some fast-food napkins I had stored in the glove compartment and applied them to my wound. It wasn't a big cut, but it went deeper than I desired. I could see the white meat underneath my skin as I tried to stop the bleeding.

I surveyed the mess inside the cab: Glass was on the dashboard, the seat, the floor... everywhere. I pulled the ugly seat cover that my dad had left (the one I'd been intending to remove for some time now) and pulled the part that covered the back over the seat. I had no time to clean up the mess, and besides I was going to take it to a car wash later this week. They can vacuum it up for me. I just needed to be able to drive without tiny shards of glass poking at my bottom.

The bleeding hadn't stopped, and I contemplated just going straight home to see if I could clean the mess up and bandage my wound. But I figured that once it was all over, I'd get depressed and angry and not want to do anything, and just stew in my idiocy and regret until it was time to go to work. So instead I drove over to Xalox B's place like I had planned, but not before stopping at a liquor store and buying some Band-Aids and a garbage bag for the gaping hole in my rear window.

The music-making did make me feel better, but I went outside every now and then to check up on the truck, to make sure it wasn't stolen. I'd taken all of the valuables inside it and jammed them into my briefcase, which I took with me. Still, I wanted to be certain that no one would get a bright idea and break into the ride for any reason.

So now I'm here at work, going outside every hour to see if the truck is still there. I have enough cash saved up to find a place in the morning that'll fix up the window for cheap, and then I'll get the car washed and have all the glass removed.

But I definitely feel like this is karma for my littering ways. The one time I decided to be a Good Samaritan turned into a total disaster. I joked to Xalox that I was never going to throw trash in the proper receptacles ever again, but really it seems to me that if I'd made it a habit of doing that in the first place this might've been prevented.

Or maybe it was inevitable. Since I started driving this truck, I've wondered what I would do if my keys got locked inside. I was too lazy to pull out the spare key and get one of those key magnets that you can attach to the underside of a car in case something like this occurs. Plus, I now know how easy it is to break into my truck-- maybe an alarm is in order, at least as a deterrent?

Either way, I still feel dumb about the whole thing. I can laugh about it later on, but for now I can't help but beat myself up over it. I guess that's how karma is, eh? Sometimes we need to learn things the hard way before it turns into a more expensive lesson further on down the road.

OK, so I'm done venting. I got work to do, and then when my shift is done I've got more work to do. I suppose it could've been worse, but then again an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, or so the saying goes.

The moral of the story: Don't litter.

date date

The date date turned out to be less formal than I anticipated, which was good because that was the whole reason why I never asked her out on a date date to begin with-- I am the type of guy who starts off hanging out with a girl and by the end of the night it has become a date date. Likewise, I have gone out on what I thought were date dates only to discover (to my chagrin) that the girl brought a friend along, thus invalidating the whole notion of a romantic night out. (For those who think life is all about threesomes, please bear in mind that I never have and never will have a threesome of ANY kind with anyone)

I put my best foot forward: I made plans for us to go to the newly-refurbished Griffith Observatory, and then later on to dinner at a nice restaurant. By mid-week, however, she had amended the plans as follows: watching a movie at the Hollywood Cemetery, and then a quick trip downtown for a friend's birthday bash at the Blue Star Cafe, where various loud punk bands were slated to play.

I was cool with the last-minute changes. It meant less money for me to spend and a more casual atmosphere. But it would still be a date date.


*/*


She likes drugs just as much as I do.

I scored some Ecstasy from one of my connections-- two Blue Boys, laced with smack and mild when taken in single doses.

It's probably not wise to center a relationship around illicit drug use, but we understand each other: she is just as fucked in the head as I am. We make no excuses-- we both like being high on chemicals. We are not out of control with it, and we both have had past loves who made a huge issue out of our casual indifference to the side effects of such mind-altering benders.

Friday night, she was upset: an argument with her roommate over money. She called me up and asked me to whisk her away. I told her I was making hip-hop beats with my homeboys in the Valley. We gave her directions and she drove out from Hollywood to hang out with the posse.

The fellas took to her instantly. She fit right in with the boy's club element. She's a rap fan, and she was impressed by my rapping skills. She made fair critiques and encouraging comments. She even went with me on a drug run in the thick of the night.

She's my partner in crime... what can I say?


*/*


I was a little stressed out over making the movie on time. I'd tried twice in the past two years to attend a screening at the Hollywood Cemetery and both times I was shut down because we arrived too late or things got too complicated. I was hoping that the third time would be the charm.

She teased me about my impatience. "You were all worried," she said to me as I parked the truck a block away from the line that was forming quickly. "'It's ten past five!' We made it OK, didn't we?"

Norally, I would get upset at this. But she had a point. "Hey, if it weren't for me pushing things along, it might've taken longer."

"Well, I am known for being late a lot. Still, I knew we'd be OK."

"I know... Believe me, I showed a lot of restraint. I'm way more impatient than that!"

"You worry too much," she said as she smiled, waiting for my reply.

"Maybe it was a perfect mix of my timeliness and your relaxed nature... it balanced itself out."

"Maybe."

Like me, she had been trying to get out to Santa Monica and Bronson for many years, but when she first arrived in Los Angeles her job schedule had her working on Saturdays. This was the first time she was able to actually come out and see what the fuss was all about. We brought a blanket, a picnic basket filled with wine and cheese and biscuits and chocolates and other snacks... and the Blue Boys.

I was happy. She was happy. We were both happy.


*/*


We kept laughing throughout the entire screening. Rebel Without A Cause, James Dean and Natalie Wood. A classic. Hays Code hilarity ensued: Sal Mineo as Plato, all but prancing and screaming and proclaiming his gaiety; Wood's strange affection for her father (who calls her "glamour puss" at one point); Jim Backus as Mr. Stark, the father of troubled rebel Jim, wearing an apron and cowering before his ball-busting wife...

We cheered as the scene set at the Griffith Observatory appeared on the screen. Both of us knew we would be there together very soon, and the thought excited us beyond belief.

A couple sitting in front of us sat down as the movie started. The woman threw her fake fur coat on the ground, landing on one of my boots.

We looked at each other, wondering where this woman got the nerve to do such a thing. I began to mash my boots into her coat while paraphrasing (under my breath) a line from the infamous Rick James episode of Chappelle's Show.

"Fuck your coat, bitch! Fuck your coat!"

We were in hysterics. The woman did not notice my subterfuge... but she did notice the piece of moldy cheese that I threw onto her coat shortly after I muddied her fur with my boots.

Rebel Without A Cause indeed...


*/*


We threw the picnic basket in the bed of my truck and drove out to Downtown, where the Blue Star Cafe was located. The Blue Boys had us amped but not batty, and the drive was elegant and easy.

We arrived just in time to see a punk band called Soccer Mom take to the stage. They were the last band to play that night. We greeted Andy, the birthday boy and bash organizer, who'd turned 25 and felt old but not too old.

One of her former boyfriends was there. He is a great guy, and he did not trip out on me and her. He has respect for women and respect for their choices. I always thought he was a cool guy when he was a regular at the Lava Lounge, and he proved it again that evening.

The singer was out-of-control, downing brews and spitting out lyrics with mad-banshee intensity. Her band was tighter than an accountant on Tax Day. They covered a Prince song-- one of my all-time favorites --and I sang along. The singer handed me the mike on the chorus,and I did not disappoint.

The beers we drank had no real effect on us. After the show, we drove back to her place where she fell asleep on the couch and I draped her over my shoulder once again (this has become a ritual for us) and tucked her into bed. I joined in for a little spooning and fell asleep pretty fast.


*/*


The morning lights came, and Marvin the cat (my gift to her) was resting on my chest, purring ebulliently as I glanced over at the clock to see what time it was before rising and gathering my affects. It was now Father's Day, and I had to go make the rounds and pay my respects.

I kissed her before I left, and promised her I would stop by the coffeehouse before I went in to work later on. We both admitted that we had a wonderful time, and we are looking forward to Griffith Observatory at the end of the month.

I know this doesn't sound like the typical date that most people go on, but for people like us it was magical and romantic and joyous. It had all the intimacy and elements of a proper date, but skewed beyond recognition by our respective hang-ups and vices.

In short, it was perfect, and I'd do it all again if given the chance.

feline

Sometimes she looks like Louise Brooks. I think it is intentional on her part.

I am completely enamored by everything she has to offer, but one of the top things I find adorable is her sense of style. She transforms her wardrobe into a malleable canvas that expresses and articulates her feelings and emotions.

She is an artist when it comes to fashion.

Her taste is not to everyone's liking, but I find it impeccable and intelligent.

Her job has her springing about town, looking for vintage materials from which to fashion and forge new creations. In the course of her travels she will find something that she personally likes, and she will keep it for herself or give it to someone she thinks might be able to use it.

She found two shirts for me, both of them to be worn on stage when I play a show. I would have never picked these shirts out myself, because my fashion sense is muted and limited. I am comfortable with blacks and greys and blue-collar jackets and scruffy boots and baggy pants.

But she knows what looks good, and I absolutely love the shirts she found for me.

I think I like the fact that she was thinking of me more than the actual shirts, but truth be told: those shirts are mighty dandy.


*/*


The Wolf Man's 30th birthday was last week. Of course we were prepared to beak it up with some fine Bolivian marching powder, because that's what Wolfie likes to do above all.

I invited her along. She and I have been spending a lot of time together and I figured she would make great company for me, Wolf and Down Low.

She brought out a playful vibe in my two friends. If she had not tagged along, I would've undoubtedly spent most of the evening dealing with their respective pathological neuroses. Instead, we all had a blast as we drank heartily and sang karaoke at a bar & grill in Burbank.

Yes, we did karaoke. She loves it, even though her voice is abysmal. She knows how bad her singing voice is, but it doesn't stop her from trying.

And I love that about her.

When I finished my song ("Little Red Corvette" by Prince) she jumped up at me and wrapped her legs around me as I walked off the stage. She flattered me as she giggled, and the sight of her Cheshire Cat grin as she beamed at me intoxicated me with pure wonder and romantic awe.

When I told her that her karaoke song was great, she sneered and said, "You don't have to say that. I know I suck."

To which I replied, "I'm not talking about being in key. I'm talking about having guts. You go up there and you give it all you got. That's incredible."

She smiled and batted her eyelashes like Louise Brooks. Then she straightened her face and said, "I have terrible stage fright. That's why I go up and do karaoke."

I gave her a kiss on the mouth-- a gentle peck, no tongue or anything like that... not that I am averse to French kisses... it's just that the moment called for a subtle caress of her lips against mine, and that's what I delivered.


*/*


By the morning, I had already dropped her off at home and headed back to my empty apartment, where Wolfie was passed out on the last piece of furniture still inside my soon-to-be-vacated abode.

He had a great time the night before. He went on about her, how cool she was and how lucky I was to have her.

I silently recalled that Wolf had actually met her a year ago, when he was playing in the band with me. She approached him after a show and complimented him on his drumming. Then he came up to me and relayed the news to me.

I remember telling him to go find her and talk to her. He didn't.

Then a year later I bumped into her at the old hang-out, and we began to chat, and I threw all caution to the wind and asked for her number so I could continue talking to her.

As much as I am glad she and I are having fun together, I wonder what would have happened had Wolf Man listened to me when I advised him to talk to her. Part of me wishes he would've had the courage to follow through on his initial impulse.

But part of me is glad that I didn't hesitate when it was my turn to approach her. The night I talked to her for the first time I knew I had to do something or spend the rest of my night kicking myself for not taking any action.

Not a day goes by when I don't pat myself on the back for showing a little backbone.

I am still planning our date date. She is looking forward to it, and so am I. It will be a chance for me to show her more than ever how far I have fallen for her.

I gave her my cat Marvin when I moved out. Seems that he fell in love with her too! Marvin is a shy but loving cat, and when she first arrived at my house he was smitten by her. He meowed loudly and sniffed her hair and stared at her with his mandarin eyes, going so far as to sit on the top of the couch so that he could ogle her up close.

She in turn found Marvin to be irresistible. She asked me if she could have him and at first I refused, but after seeing Marvin's reaction to her I decided that it would be healthy for him to be with her. Yes, I would miss him, but I don't feel so bad knowing that he is being loved... and that he is loving his new home just as well.

It's the best thing for him, really.