I'm having a
contemplative breakfast at Hollywood Burger Bar, taking stock of my
life on another overcast day in July. It's not raining and it's not
cold and I should be happy, but the winter here is just so fucking
long and cold and I'm thinking about it already in July. That strikes
me as pathetic. Maybe I need to move, but then I'd have to give up my
quest for the elusive essence of the lobster. I made a pact with
myself when I started this job at “The Sky's No Limit,” my humble
architectural firm employer, that I would stay at that job and its
humane health insurance, paid holidays and vacation, and 30 hour a
week schedule, until I finished my projected 1000 page novel,
tentatively titled Seafood. It's been two years now and I
haven't written a word.
I really had
something particular in mind when I started this cup of coffee and
the above paragraph, but I guess I got sidetracked on this crucial
subject of the weather. That's the thing about taking stock—it only
lasts as long as there's nothing going on—once you get involved
with something like a book or a movie, grocery shopping or deciding
on what color to paint something, you're right back in the business
of living your monumentally insignificant life.
I've been reading
this book, “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls,” about the “New
Hollywood” of the Seventies. I'm always reading stuff about
Hollywood lately, trying to draw parallels with where I live, the
Hollywood neighborhood of Portland, which I call “The Other
Hollywood.” Basically, there are no parallels—but anyway, the
book is quite engaging. Actually, I had something to say about it
earlier, before I was floated out of the diner in a sea of coffee,
but now I can't remember and it's much later. Time passes within the
same paragraph. I've got to tell you, whoever you is, that I don't
use the word “basically”—that was a joke. Not a very good
joke—but a joke.
Anyway, I thought
of what I was trying to remember earlier. I accidentally wrote the
date wrong—the year—I wrote 1989 instead of '98—which made me
think about what was I doing in 1989? It doesn't seem as
interesting to think about now, as it did earlier.
