the andy dick
memorial bust pool
In kindergarten, I was the first one to finish my math book, the first to learn how to ride a bike, and the first to discover girls.
I vividly remember my friends Sam and Derek teasing me because I used to sleep over at my Mormon friend Carolyns house. But I was unfazed. Girls were nasty, to them. Me, I never bought into that belief. If girls had "cooties", I wanted me some of that.
Fast forward to high school, where I was absolutely knock-down drag-out in love with about 5 or 6 different girls. All older. All friends of mine. All talented and beautiful and smart. All women to this day for whom I would be tempted to drop everything and anything for. (I had and still have very good taste in women. Clothes, not so much. But women, quite.)
What leads me to these women (and forgive me here if I end up sounding like some horny quasi-misogynistic 60s east-coast fiction writer here) is this: They Know the Secret. Yes women, you do.
The secret to what? I dont know. See. Not only do I not know the answer, I dont even know the question. And maybe you don't know you know, but you know. Its hidden on you somewhere. Written in mini-hieroglyphics between the third and fourth toes of your left foot, or encoded digitally in an iris, or graphed in freckles on your inner thigh. And I want nothing more than to make like Sir Edmund Hillary and undertake a topographical survey of your body to find it.
And back then, given the chance to find it, the Bay would crest and the hills above Berkeley would arc and a shaft of moonlight would pinpoint my window-fogged and gently rolling car parked on a dark street at two in the morning on a Saturday and I would know. And I would never be bored again. I would never feel less than. I would never feel fear in my fathers growing seclusion or my dogs violent aging or my grandmothers dementia. My words on the page would be lasers and the notes from my trumpet cutlery and my every entrance on stage would stop the collective heart of the audience like a lightning strike or a bulls-eye.
This is what brings me down to drink still from the cool stream though pumas lie waiting in the tall grass, visible. And though the pawings could not help keep my father, dog, or grandmother from making their exits, there is still the lightning to bottle. There is still that. There is always that.
And though it seems so, I was never in the market for a muse. I could never stand the scrutiny, the attention. I want merely to be near a comet a comet with her own life, her own career, her own sufferings and to perhaps get a bit singed in her wake.
And to be prosaic for a minute, last night M., my comet of late, were eating at what used to be a great little restaurant tucked halfway up Laurel Canyon and is now a different and only OK little restaurant tucked halfway up Laurel Canyon, and there was a 20something hipster birthday party taking place, populated by LA Hoes. Blondes in tight clothing, with breast, chin, and nose-jobs, smiling and chatting, drinking Pellegrino and white wine and occasionally answering their cell phones. LA hoes. And I honestly fail to understand why people try to make themselves look like that. I honestly can not. It is aesthetically pleasing, perhaps (perhaps), but as dull as a cloudless sky, and about as memorable.
The Larry King Happy