Month: November 2011

I was at home and she was in her car when I asked her what she was wearing.

“Just my work clothes.”

“What are your work clothes?”

“You know, the usual.”

“I might not. Go ahead and tell me.”

“Well… My jeans. A green shirt.”

“And underneath?”

She paused. Knowing her, she was thinking of an attractive lie.

“A black bra and black panties.”

“And when you get here?”

“… just a dress. Maybe my flowered one.”

It was as awkward as it reads. I prefer demonstration over conversation.

As we continued we discussed how much I was looking forward to seeing her, how I’d been thinking of her, etc. Partial lies, of course, since I’d been thinking of more than her. Being on the rebound will do that. She’d have all of me when she arrived for dinner anyway.

“One more thing,” I said.

“Yea?”

“Is your apron with you?”

I could hear shuffling noises. “Yes, one of them. I need to get it washed.”

“Don’t do that. Bring it with you.”

“Um, I guess I could. Why?”

“I’ll show when you get here.”

And in spite of that momentary innocent lull, she knew why I wanted her to bring the apron. I’d like to think she smiled knowingly.

latimes:

The energy, and expense, of bringing water to the Southland: The twin forces of power costs and climate-change regulations are threatening Southern California’s long love affair with imported water, forcing the region to consider more mundane sources closer to home.

Photo: The Colorado River Aqueduct snakes through the desert on its way to the Julian Hinds Pumping Plant, one of the hydraulic hearts of California’s vast water supply system. Credit: Irfan Khan / Los Angeles Times

My skeletons are fairly benign. Minor altercations, short stints of love-starved stalking, borderline statutory rape, excessive use of hair gel, disappearing at the worst times. It’s all been relative.

During one such disappearance, back in ‘01 or ‘02, I decided to follow the LA river to its source. It turned out the LA river doesn’t exactly have roads that run parallel to it, and I gave up somewhere in the desert. I couldn’t tell you where. I wasn’t a drinker at the time so where I’d usually stop someplace for a quiet drink to reflect I instead stopped at a Carl’s Jr. and ate a burger. For some reason, doing that burger thing, it’s something I felt really ashamed of. It felt pathetic. I think that burger came to represent pure, unadulterated failure.

(Source: Los Angeles Times)

Several items fell to my bed as I loosed yesterday’s set pants of its accoutrements. Among them: 1 set of keys for both vehicle and home; 1 receipt from Dick’s Sporting Goods; 1 key card for the local office; 1 key card for the building that houses the local office; 1 key card for an office in Redmond, Washington; 1 key card for the local gym; 1 credit card; 1 debit card; 1 California driver’s license; 1 phone. This last object slid down a mound of clothes lying on the unused side of the bed and into the open mouth of a boot.

I said, “Nice catch.”

As I retrieved the phone I thought of having a conversation with the boot, but it seemed excessive expression of ego, and instead I sat to write this down for future reference.

latimes:

The energy, and expense, of bringing water to the Southland: The twin forces of power costs and climate-change regulations are threatening Southern California’s long love affair with imported water, forcing the region to consider more mundane sources closer to home.

Photo: The Colorado River Aqueduct snakes through the desert on its way to the Julian Hinds Pumping Plant, one of the hydraulic hearts of California’s vast water supply system. Credit: Irfan Khan / Los Angeles Times

My skeletons are fairly benign. Minor altercations, short stints of love-starved stalking, borderline statutory rape, excessive use of hair gel, disappearing at the worst times. It’s all been relative.

During one such disappearance, back in ‘01 or ‘02, I decided to follow the LA river to its source. It turned out the LA river doesn’t exactly have roads that run parallel to it, and I gave up somewhere in the desert. I couldn’t tell you where. I wasn’t a drinker at the time so where I’d usually stop someplace for a quiet drink to reflect I instead stopped at a Carl’s Jr. and ate a burger. For some reason, doing that burger thing, it’s something I felt really ashamed of. It felt pathetic. I think that burger came to represent pure, unadulterated failure.

(Source: Los Angeles Times)

Several items fell to my bed as I loosed yesterday’s set pants of its accoutrements. Among them: 1 set of keys for both vehicle and home; 1 receipt from Dick’s Sporting Goods; 1 key card for the local office; 1 key card for the building that houses the local office; 1 key card for an office in Redmond, Washington; 1 key card for the local gym; 1 credit card; 1 debit card; 1 California driver’s license; 1 phone. This last object slid down a mound of clothes lying on the unused side of the bed and into the open mouth of a boot.

I said, “Nice catch.”

As I retrieved the phone I thought of having a conversation with the boot, but it seemed excessive expression of ego, and instead I sat to write this down for future reference.

2%.

What to do.

I’m thinking of semen. I’m thinking you play it where it lies. I’m saying you give me a kiss. I know what I taste like, it’s no surprise. I don’t know what you taste like with my semen in you, but I’ll find out.

It’s not honey. That’s pretty funny. I’m not laughing but don’t take it personally.

It’s hammock fucking. You know how much precision that takes? The amount of brain power? All the tiny movements to keep from stumbling out? It’s not easy. It takes skill.

Shit. 1%!

Alright. Your sweaty hair is gorgeous. It smells like it should. Come here and let me kiss your forehead. I’ll prove it.

Talk apocalypse to me.

2%.

What to do.

I’m thinking of semen. I’m thinking you play it where it lies. I’m saying you give me a kiss. I know what I taste like, it’s no surprise. I don’t know what you taste like with my semen in you, but I’ll find out.

It’s not honey. That’s pretty funny. I’m not laughing but don’t take it personally.

It’s hammock fucking. You know how much precision that takes? The amount of brain power? All the tiny movements to keep from stumbling out? It’s not easy. It takes skill.

Shit. 1%!

Alright. Your sweaty hair is gorgeous. It smells like it should. Come here and let me kiss your forehead. I’ll prove it.

Talk apocalypse to me.

Here’s my planet.

Yesterday, a friend and I were discussing grade school in the 21st century. He explained that his 6th grade son not only completes his assignments on a computer but is also required to submit his work via USB stick. He takes the USB device to school and uploads his homework.

“What of cursive writing,” I asked.

“Oh, that’s dead. No one writes in cursive any longer.”

“All those hours I spent perfecting my letter S.”

“It’s turning into American calligraphy. The way things are going, handwriting will be completely dead soon. When’s the last time you wrote anything?”

I produced the small notebook that I keep in my backpocket and showed him the chicken scratch I call handwriting.

“Yea, but when’s the last time you wrote something substantial? Like a letter?”

I shrugged and returned the notebook to my pocket.

It may have been this sickness, but this affected me deeply. I envisioned a school full of kids toting around iPads, tapping away their assignments. I saw my old neighborhood and the kids who would not have such things until well after the good (read: moneyed) schools had theirs. I saw them all sitting alone on school benches, writing love letters to girls and boys who would receive them as emails on Mars. They were chock full of smileys and GIFs from romantic films.

Here’s my planet.

Yesterday, a friend and I were discussing grade school in the 21st century. He explained that his 6th grade son not only completes his assignments on a computer but is also required to submit his work via USB stick. He takes the USB device to school and uploads his homework.

“What of cursive writing,” I asked.

“Oh, that’s dead. No one writes in cursive any longer.”

“All those hours I spent perfecting my letter S.”

“It’s turning into American calligraphy. The way things are going, handwriting will be completely dead soon. When’s the last time you wrote anything?”

I produced the small notebook that I keep in my backpocket and showed him the chicken scratch I call handwriting.

“Yea, but when’s the last time you wrote something substantial? Like a letter?”

I shrugged and returned the notebook to my pocket.

It may have been this sickness, but this affected me deeply. I envisioned a school full of kids toting around iPads, tapping away their assignments. I saw my old neighborhood and the kids who would not have such things until well after the good (read: moneyed) schools had theirs. I saw them all sitting alone on school benches, writing love letters to girls and boys who would receive them as emails on Mars. They were chock full of smileys and GIFs from romantic films.

Bri asked: Sometimes I wonder how much you really care when I’m gone, Victor.

Sometimes I get these bad thoughts in my head and I belittle myself immensely sounding like your voice. It’s been awhile since I’ve heard it yet it’s amazing how accurate my mind manages to mimic the tonality. The way that you look for words wanting to keep our conversation going because I am withdrawn, quiet and silent.

I feel really bad today and doubt I mean anything to you.

It’s taken me a while to understand who you are, and who we were. I suppose I was too close/lonely/horny to be objective.

We still ought to have coffee. Confrontation is optional, just for you.