Tonight I went bowling. I haven't done that in ages, and of all the places, it had to be Lucky Strike, right in the dead center of the Hollywood murk. ( I call it the murk because it is a travesty of the once romantic American dream; sourly soiled, foiled, folded and unfolded: beautiful, stark, and bemuddled.)
It is 2:33AM and someone in my building is going through a Bjork phase. I've heard her soulful crooning resonating through these thin walls all week long. This summer, someone was really into The Doors. It made for a great summer soundtrack (mixed in with the drunken songs of the homeless hippies roaming these Venice alleys).
I'm going to burn some Nag Champa and go to sleep. I'm not a pot smoker, it just smells like unprofessional lazy freedom to me. The desire to smell it comes and goes. The distant Doors? Probably. Americana? Hippiably.
I'll most likely wake up choking on the soapy smoke.
( I love italics, they hit the seriously sardonic note just right, with a miniature smirk.)
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1 comment:
unprofessional lazy freedom. sounds just about right. i think i'm ready for a good dose of that in my near future. great blog as always. xo
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