The last couple of days whizzed. My memory is foggy, murky, blurry. I know that my time in LA and is fading fast as the summer's end is near. On Thursday, I'll be back in traveling mode and living out of my backpack again as I head up and down the California coast instead of shacking up in Nicky's apartment in the slums of Beverly Hills.
I was up late late late on Saturday and didn't really crash until Sunday morning. I blame my faded state and All the Presidents Men. I watched the majority of the epic flick and I kept thinking was how important newspapers and the written word used to be were when I was a kid growing up in the post-Watergate years and how now newspapers are the last dinosaurs roaming the earth until they become extinct and only exist as online websites. I doubt that the traditional print newspaper won't be completely wiped out in New York City. People still want something to read on the subway aside from the free copy of Metro.
After a couple of hours of dead sleep with lots of oxy dreams haunting my slumbered body, I finally woke up and sometime on Sunday morning, Nicky and I wandered over to Nick's coffeeshop. It was super crowded, which it always is on a weekend, so we luckily were seated at the counter. I don't mind sitting there because you can watch TV or watch the fry cooks in action. I couldn't believe my eyes when I spotted Olympic men's field hockey on TV.
I thought that field hockey was a game for prep school dykes? In high school I went out with one girl who played on a field hockey team for a random Upper East side all girls school. She may have gone both ways at the time, or at least in all of my wildest fantasies, she was fingering her fellow teammates in the showers after practice. She had a very distinct name and I found her within seconds via google. Makes me wonder how many old classmates or random people in my life google me and end up here?
I have been working out every day since Derek left. I attempted light jogging a couple of times since the accident, but I still a little sore so I stuck to brisk walking on the verge of speed walking. Sometimes Nicky joins me and that's nice because we're working out together, but she walks too slow for me and I don't feel as though I'm getting a proper work out so I prefer heading out to roam the streets of Beverly Hills by myself.
On Sunday night, we ate dinner with Nicky's parents at an Italian joint in Westwood. They returned from their vacation and recanted several stories about visiting Yankee Stadium (for the last time) and touring Asheville, NC as a possible retirement locale. They fell in love with Cracker Barrel but never had a chance to eat at Waffle House.
When we left the restaurant, there was an awkward scene with a guy at an adjacent table. I noticed that he kept staring at us during his meal. He called me over to his table.
"Are you Rushdie?"
He thought that I was Salman Rushdie's son. For a second, a wave of paranoia bombarded my frontal lobe. Was he a fanatic trying to kill me? When the novel Satanic Verses was originally published, Ayatollah Khomeini issued a fatwah against Rushdie and his publishers. Although Rushdie went underground, he was never harmed. Three translators were not so lucky.
I quickly left the restaurant but made sure I wasn't being followed.
On Monday morning, we woke up early because it was beach day. One of the few things that will get Nicky to jump out of bed is a trip to the beach. After breakfast (bacon, eggs, and biscuits at O'Groats), we drove up to Malibu and spent several hours on Zuma beach.
I finished reading one book and started The Road by Cormac McCarthy. The first 95 pages went by fast and McCarthy is a powerful writer and compelling storyteller. I got so lost in the story that I forgot that I was at the beach. I looked up from the pages and had one of those moments where I was in a completely different world and lost for a few seconds in a brief period of disorientation. When I heard the rumble of the waves, I instantly snapped out of it.
"Oh, shit," I mumbled. "I'm at the beach."
Over the last week, I dilligently worked on the upcoming issues of Truckin'. I wrote a new story and edited a bunch of others for the September and October issues. I'll be in London/Amsterdam at the end of next month and won't have too much free time to work on my side projects... so I took advantage of the abundance of free time that I had now.
The best thing that happened to me over the last couple of days was getting a chance to write... fiction.... for the first time in... shit, I can't recall when. Creating something from nothing was a refreshing feeling. Working out definitely affects my brain. I'm always more clear headed after working out and I seem to write better... mainly because I have time to actually think through concepts, thoughts, and ideas.
On Tuesday night, we caught the latest Woody Allen flick called Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Woody loves Scarlett Johansson and casted her in three of his last four flicks. Allen's previous three flicks were shot in London, while his latest gem was shot on location in Spain. Made me really miss Barcelona.
I was disappointed with the sex scenes, I mean, I didn't see any of Scarlett's milky white boobies. Not even a nipple shot. What the fuck? I thought Woody Allen was a pervert? There was one erotic scene where Penelope Cruz and Scarlett make out. I popped a wood there. Cruz was the definite highlight of the film.
Anyway, here's the trailer...
What I admire about Woody Allen is his work ethic. He's cranked out one film a year (on average) since the early 1970s. That's insane. Anyway, after four films in Europe, Allen recently returned to NYC to shoot.
Speaking of the Olympics and Spain... I just watched Spain beat up on Croatia in the quarterfinals of men's basketball. US plays the Aussies in a few hours. If insomnia strikes, I'll try to watch that live.
Aside from hoops, I'm done with watching the Olympics. NBC blows. The recent news that ESPN is trying to get future Olympic broadcasting bids got me excited... except that won't be until 2014 or 216 at the earliest.