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Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Slightly tipsy. Just back from a premiere and party at Grauman's Chinese Theater for the show "Six Feet Under."
Read that sentence again. A premiere at GRAUMAN'S FUCKING CHINESE. Kind of hep, eh? And a party. Pretty swell fun, despite the indignity of being surrounded by lacquered young Hollywoodens, all doing better than I ever will for no justifiable reason and others doing well for every good reason imaginable. Sheer talent as well as the schmoozers/schnorrers. Me more in the Schnorrer camp.
Gotta catch a plane tomorrow and deal with the no smoking, the time change, a potential hangover, and all of it. But you may freely interpret my lack of timely entries as evidence of too much fun being had. It's been great. And now it's on to New York, the cold, and an eventless horizon.
But I'll see my Shelley, and you have no idea what glory that represents now. Damn I miss her. Nothing but Shelley means anything now. I'll share LA tales once I'm situated at the home computer, but as of now I am interested solely in family and impending fatherhood; The auld creative dream rests snug in a coffin it should have been laid in years ago. Los Angeles has helped concretize that determination (and it IS a determination; brutal realizations never having had much motivational sway hitherto, and this new path demanding the determined suppression of a host o' bad optimistic habits), so this was good. Even if I hadn't had so much fun. But I've had so much fun.
Confidential to Liz - I blew my chance to hit Tiki Ti. FUCK!
But in short, for now: as much as I could not imagine living here, all I miss about NewYork is the loved ones. The city the state and the whole life can go piss up a rope. I think "home" could permanently be a zipper bag in any comfortable room. With a bit of Glenlivet. The worst thing about heading back to civilian life is the loss of that temporal "hey let's blow it out" mood. And the pernicious resuming of that "oh, I can see you anytime... not tonight" delusion that is the source of all grief.
Gimme the clock ticking and the temporary bunker. But first, gimme my wife.
Your faithful retiree - Sport
Read that sentence again. A premiere at GRAUMAN'S FUCKING CHINESE. Kind of hep, eh? And a party. Pretty swell fun, despite the indignity of being surrounded by lacquered young Hollywoodens, all doing better than I ever will for no justifiable reason and others doing well for every good reason imaginable. Sheer talent as well as the schmoozers/schnorrers. Me more in the Schnorrer camp.
Gotta catch a plane tomorrow and deal with the no smoking, the time change, a potential hangover, and all of it. But you may freely interpret my lack of timely entries as evidence of too much fun being had. It's been great. And now it's on to New York, the cold, and an eventless horizon.
But I'll see my Shelley, and you have no idea what glory that represents now. Damn I miss her. Nothing but Shelley means anything now. I'll share LA tales once I'm situated at the home computer, but as of now I am interested solely in family and impending fatherhood; The auld creative dream rests snug in a coffin it should have been laid in years ago. Los Angeles has helped concretize that determination (and it IS a determination; brutal realizations never having had much motivational sway hitherto, and this new path demanding the determined suppression of a host o' bad optimistic habits), so this was good. Even if I hadn't had so much fun. But I've had so much fun.
Confidential to Liz - I blew my chance to hit Tiki Ti. FUCK!
But in short, for now: as much as I could not imagine living here, all I miss about NewYork is the loved ones. The city the state and the whole life can go piss up a rope. I think "home" could permanently be a zipper bag in any comfortable room. With a bit of Glenlivet. The worst thing about heading back to civilian life is the loss of that temporal "hey let's blow it out" mood. And the pernicious resuming of that "oh, I can see you anytime... not tonight" delusion that is the source of all grief.
Gimme the clock ticking and the temporary bunker. But first, gimme my wife.
Your faithful retiree - Sport
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