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National I Can't Believe I've Done this Twice Now
It's National Novel Writing Month, so LAist is writing a novel.
like KFed's "music", the rule is you cant worry about it being good, it just needs to be written down by you, during this month.
frankly i cant believe that day two was so much easier than day one, but still i procrastinated a lot because i didnt know what i was going to write and now that its over i dont know what i said.
maybe its better that way. so heres part two after the jump.
ps if anyone else is writing this month and wants to us to post some of your stuff, that might be able to be arranged.
photo of KFed on Halloween by The City of West Hollywood via flickr
"Right On Bundy" pt 2
her parents lived in malibu and so did she and her brother and her sister. they lived like hippies. it was the sweetest thing youd ever see. parents who actually trusted their kids and loved them and sorta left them alone.
sorta? totally left them alone. the one boy lived in the converted garage. clothes were everywhere. the bed was on an angle. his drum set was in the middle of the room, his banjo was keeping the window open. every drawer was open in every chest while he laid in his hammock and slowly played the blues on a cheap electric bass.
first brother of a girl i was dating who i actually felt no need whatsoever to impressed. he was all good with me and i was all good with him. and whatever sweet little stoney state he was always in. sorta made me want to roll whatever the hell he was smoking.
mmmmm talked a good deal about passion as she read me poetry of all sorts. topless. when you love someone you'll listen to every word out of their lipsticked pout and lap it all in. she read me pound, and creeley, and plath and sexton, and where i was from she might have well have been telling me about the great poets of mars. not only had i never heard of them i was still stuck on the concept that you could get away with writing a poem that didnt rhyme.
"isnt that the entire point of a poem," i asked, "to rhyme?"
she took her glasses off and said, "you are so naive it's adorable."
who doesn't want to be adorable? so i kept asking questions and she kept answering. did growing up in malibu mean that you knew This much, i thought? weren't these kids supposed to be burnout surfers and beach bimbos? mmmmm and her siblings couldnt have lived closer to zuma and yet there they all were, super smart, not at all as jaded as Gen X was supposed to be, and totally into drugs and sex for the right reasons.
mmmmm was so above sex at 19 that she was over it. perfect timing for me since i was still a virgin and happy to even get a smile from a chick let alone what was behind curtain numbers 3 to 33.
often times she would break up with me. usually the reasons were vague like "i just want to cleanse myself of everything. friends, lovers, teachers, all of it."
she could be very dramatic. she would talk about feminism in a long wool sweater with her long (now) dyed red hair and mini skirt and id catch every fourth word. when we were broken up shed call and ask me what i was thinking about and id say your mini skirt and your long hair and the way your silhouette would make the most beautiful shapes against your window. and shed quiz me on what she had been talking about and id fail.
"you only want me for one thing", shed accuse
"we've dated a year and i havent gotten that one thing", id say, "and i dont care, i love you."
why do you love me shed ask and at first i didnt know how to answer that correctly but after working at the television store i learned fast.
"if this tv is as good as you say, why do i need to buy an extra five year warrantee?"
"whats the lowest price, the best price that you can give me on this stereo?"
"my son wants a Commodore 64, but I want to buy him a computer, but we can't afford $1,300 for a 20 megabyte computer, what do you recommend?"
i recommend that every young person get a job in commission sales before they graduate college and i also recommend that every young man fall in love with a redheaded gemini on zuma beach in the backseat of a caddilac while listening to The Seventh Day on klos.
why do i love you mmmmmm because youre a different girl every day. monday you called me at 6pm and we talked till midnight and you told me maybe twenty times how you wanted me. tuesday you said you wanted to join the peace corps. wednesday you said you wanted to follow the grateful dead this summer. thursday you said you wanted to have five kids starting right now so you could run with them in the backyard. and today youre telling me you want to be a buddhist in tibet. you are the greatest tv show ever and sometimes youre naked.
thats why you love me? she growled?
mmmmm, lemme tell you something. the ways i love you multiply with every syllable out of your mouth. youve taught me everything i didnt know and all i want to do is listen to more of your records, and read every book you tell me to, and kiss every part of your body until your dad is close to waking up.
her dad was hiding from the mafia.
i love you in ways i cannot express. i love you in secret ways. dirty ways. unclean ways. i love you the way a tree secretly loves being pissed on by dogs, which is why they take it. i love you the way a butterfly loves a gentle breeze. i love you the way bottles of beer loves the brown paper bag that gives them street cred. i love you like your lipstick loves your front tooth. i love you so much sometimes i wont wash my hand for days
SICK she laughed
oh no, thats not sick baby. thats love. maybe im teaching you something. maybe im showing you something old anne sexton didnt know about. true love. the love of a whiff from yesterday unexpected like while reaching for a bean burrito at am pm.
sometimes i would talk to her and secretly hope her sister was listening in on us. totally offlimits girl. tennis star in the making. girlie to a fault. but bitchy girlie. quiet. always judging. but in a hot way. the way catwoman or betty page should judge men when they come sniffing around. my technique with her was to use esp on her whenever possible.
you want to show me your panties, id think to myself. ask me to come into the bathroom and then show me your panties. 21 college dropout. only a few years older than us but seemingly decades away.
when she died i started believing in the mafia. or something. something was wrong. something didnt add up.
one great thing about commissioned sales is everything always made sense.
if your video tape didnt work, youd never sell the vcr. if the subwoofer didnt give a clear bouncy tone to the mix tape the customer brought in, no way would he buy any part of the system you were showing him.
and if you didnt plant the seed early about the warrantee, no way would you get a five year. especially while wearing a black shirt and a pink tie and dark blue slacks from Santa Monica Place.
before 3rd Street Promenade there was the Santa Monica Mall. it was the outdoor mall. because in Santa Monica, where 340 days are sunny, you dont need a damn indoor mall. but at some point they built one anyway but they couldnt call it the SM Mall, cuz thats what the outdoor one was already called so they called it Santa Monica Place.
because people in LA love new things, Santa Monica Place was an instant hit. all the best stores left the Mall for the Place, which brought about some "edge" to the outdoor pedestrian mall. Abandoned stores with bums snoozing away in the doorways will do that for you.
normally you'd walk through Santa Monica Mall to get a glimpse of "old" santa monica, and see if you could score some retardedly great deal on something, and when you struck out youd go into Santa Monica Place and get dazzled by the hot chicks, some of whom had just come back from the beach, or better, Samo High, and blow whatever extra cash you had on some space age bachelor pad bullshit like pink ties and blue pants.
the best part of Santa Monica Mall was the Vidal Sassoon Academy. about once a month they'd have a quarter page ad in the LA Weekly advertising free haircuts. theyd tell you what time to show up and the haircut was done by the punk rock and gay students with their teachers' supervision so lots of times the haircut could take three freaking hours.
it didnt matter, the girls were unreal. obviously competing with each other to see how weird they could make themselves. and since this was during the days of punk and new wave, there was some uncharted territory that got charted with every visit to Vidal Sassoons but then youd say, now how am i going to sell tvs with a green mohawk?
so i quit selling tvs and started pumping gas at an all full serve gasoline station in beverly hills.
i did it half because i liked the hair cut i had just gotten, half because i was tired of trying to trick people into thinking that their spoiled little angel wouldnt be just as happy with a Commodore 64 for $138 as he would be with a 286 Zenith monocrome computer for $1,500.
and partially because i thought mmmmm would think it was so punk rock that i turned my back on shirt-n-tie wearing semi corporate america of selling overpriced electronics in a world bombarded with artificial messages and actions. her words.
and instead devoted my life to helping people, in whatever little way i could.
every action a teenage boy makes is to get the girl he likes to let him feel her up.
just because i had just turned 20 was no reason for me to do anything differently,
except maybe use the shower a bit more.