I’m getting old. We all are. But I’m now in my 30’s. 32. Still. I can’t drink like I used to. I’ve cut out caffeine (mostly just because), and I’ve cut down my cigar smoking to none. About two weeks back I bought a rice cooker. My evolutionary leap was similar to the time cut in 2001. I went from making beans and rice with some cheese, to herb and lemon chicken with broccoli and rice, to last night’s Tandori Chicken with quinoa and green beans. Tomorrow I’m making myself some orange chicken stir-fry, though cooking may get curtailed by the heatwave that has turned Los Angeles and the Valley into a literal melting pot.
Going to the supermarket before meant getting simple things, now it’s about hitting the meat section, while also getting sauces, stuff and stuff. This week I went to Trader Joe’s and I got the obsession among many in my transitioning-to-adulthood set. I discussed this with some of those of that set, and they poo-poo’d TJ’s for Whole Foods. Snobbery within snobbery. Some of this may be LA culture, as Portland has some different shops. In the same way I doubt I would have bought an iPhone if I lived in Portland. Here it makes sense on a level that it didn’t in Portland – where I didn’t get a cell phone until 2004. There is goodness in TJ’s that I appreciated, and good prices, and great hummus.
I’ve spent the last week re-writing. When I work on my own, I tend to know structure so tightly that I don’t do much more than tweaking. But when I work with other people, I find that structure can change much more whimsically. I wonder if that means I can’t see outside of my own head, or if my structure, when I sit down to write something, is much stronger in a solo outing.
I literally have no idea.
I never feel cinematic. I say clever things from time to time, to which sometimes people remind that I’ve said at later dates. To which my writing partner in LA will stick into scripts and then remind me that I said off-handedly. But when I hit the dance floor, sometimes it’s like I’m Tony Manero. Or, more to the point, Gordon Cooper. Tonight, when I came I knew the DJ, and one of the other regulars, a lady, who is also a student, and has a name that rhymes with mine. The DJ put on Like a Virgin for her after the three of us had a pow-wow, and I got hoots when I rubbed my hands all over myself when Madonna sings “touched for the very first time” and giggles from my dancing partner. She likes open floors, and we danced for a bit, but she didn’t go crazy for the music like I did. The DHplayed California Soul, which I told him was my hot button song of the moment, and you can read the latest BO report and know that it’s my song of choice at the moment.
The girl didn’t go crazy for the music (which turned hip hop), but as I told her I like my fan club, and at about midnight when The Jackson 5’s “ABC” came on, I felt like the floor was mine. The whole club was mine at that moment. When I worked at a video store I would have moments where I felt like I was the best video store employee in the world, for an hour or so. It would pass, but I knew that it was true. And I recognized the absurdity of it, but still, it felt good. When I was on the floor tonight for a brief moment, I felt if I said it was my floor, and that everyone around would have to agree.
A little bit after that, a girl came over and said “I love to watch you dance!” I said she should dance with me, then. She then said her boyfriend was nearby and would get a bit jealous.
Story of my life.
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