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6. "First Day" 10/8/2007

I’m at Bryant Elementary School at the early hour of 7 a.m.  I just finished talking to the custodian, and have “Where the Wild Things Are,” “The Little Prince,” and my guitar in tow.  I don’t have the first day shivers, a fact I impart to my previous job, with even earlier 5 a.m. mornings spent pushing pastries into place and brewing up coffee, stuck behind a counter to please people,  most good working people, some real snide and grumpy -  a shit job at Starbucks where I was the college graduate and my coworkers were in high school or college, or were moving up in the corporate chain.  So here I am, fresh, ready, and lonely in the hallway on my first day of substitute teaching.

5. Ode to Los Angeles, No. 1" 8/ /1997

Though the magazines Bikini, Grand Royal, and the now-defunct Sassy outlined “where it’s at” in Los Angeles, the information is scattered throughout interviews, test drives, personal bullshit, and knick knacks.  That’s why I present to you below the cut and dry of the region’s haunts.  Planning a weekend around these little ladies will make you days Los Andelicious.

Pool.  Bel Age Hotel  on Sunset and San Vicente.  We walked in straight faceed at 1 AM after taking in a Poi Dog Pondering concert at the Roxy (a friend’s idea and surprisingly uplifting).  Take the elevator to the highest floor, get out, find a stairwell at the end of the hallway, and walk on up to a western mecca.  Pool, spa, and views of the electric grid below.  White towels are even provided.

Drink.  Dublins on the Sunset Strip.  While waiting fifteen minutes for valet parking (more of a necessity than for bougeosis reasons), Joe and I watched a tow truck perform a miracle in hauling a car through tightly packed cars and across three boulevard lanes.  The wait made us thirsty and we found a table upstairs.  Everyone was dressed to impress.  The bar had Guinness on tap, which was good.  Other than that and the name of the bar, spelled out in green, there is nothing Irish about the experience.

Food.  Swingers on Beverly, one block from Fairfax.   Operating before, and having no relation to, the movie of the same name, Swingers has welcomed flocks of urbanites with its Warholian pink cow wallpaper and dining specials.  I am a softie for the choose your own omelette.  The waitresses are nice, the parking is manageable, and its open pretty late.  Grillled hash browns at 1 AM after a swim are always a special treat.

Dance Club.  The Pink on Main Street at Ashland in Ocean Park.  Trip hop and related sorts.  Nearby is some tasty grubbage at Holy Guacamole.  Go even if it hot sauces are not your hobby.  The cover of the club is around eight bucks.  A carnesada taco will run you $1.50 with chips and salsa.  The guy working the register is always reading some classic literary work – Siddhartha, Merchant of Venice…  Talk a little prose with the man.

Beach.  The beach rolls on two blocks away, which is a great place to spend a morning.  Grab some grub and drink (I prefer Orgenia) at the nearby Noah’s and stroll over.  Pick up an LA Weekly on the way for some good reading to go along with the good eats. If you tour LA in the fall, head back to the beach at dusk for some ocean swimming.  The Santa Monica pier ferris wheel’s lights glow through the evening fog, a grey mood pervades, solitary and timeless, and the waves are decent for body surfing.  After the light becomes really low I head back east to Main Street for some more more tacos and say good night to the day.

4. "Limbo" 8/26/1997

I have been here three weeks and, as I wrote before, have lost important documents for my teaching application.  I called and mailed in money for another letter of recommendation and my CBEST scores so that I can apply to the SF and Oakland school districts.  I live in the DLC but don’t want to teach here.  I envision driving on a ribbon of highway over the city into Oaktown to work with the kids there before sailing back in the afternoon to begin a night of serving le café in the evil establishment.   

My dole from my parents cannot last for too much longer, and now I wait for phone calls by day and read at night, as I have no money or new friends to get on with to go pay and play in the city.  What I do have is my ganja, bamboo blinds, the hush of the 280 freeway, a streetlight illuminating Woodrow Avenue outside, and if I lean out my window and look out west, I can see a crest of hills, with the Pacific Ocean past it and beyond my view.  

Ryan and Jim are at rehearsals.  They go on in three days at Burning Man.  I am stuck here, and expecting in some time to see some friends from LA over the Labor Day weekend.  I still need to buy a barbeque and check out Mission Street.    I’m reading Neal Cassidy now.  It’s sad that his stories (literally) and letters (storywise) end without a conclusion (though some do).

3. "Job Search" 8/20/1997

Directions:  568 Howard Street via I-80, last exit before the Bay Bridge...  The only reason I’m writing now is because there is no one in the house.  We have taken a oath to get stoned tonight - we all made private agreements with ourselves, it seems, when we awoke, and we introduced these deals into our morning conversations.   

I’m going in for my first interview tomorrow at that address.   I have this job or nothing else.   I highlighted “dishwasher” on a page of one hundred help-wanted ads, and there is no sense of elitism, but I do not really dig washing other people’s dishes while having a college degree.  My teaching issue is not settled - I go to SFSU tomorrow morning to get some answers.  My new CBEST scores come in nine days now - I am really a moron for losing the originals.  

I went out to Oakland today to visit its school district office.  I drove into downtown, out of downtown, back into it, then turned on some street, headed over to East Bay and on up to Berkeley, back hrough Oakland’s downtown on a u-turn,  and finally got off near some dock and drove right over to it.

2. "Ocean Beach" 8/15/1997

This past evening, when I finally made it to Ocean Beach, the sun had already set over the horizon and people were already leaving in their cars.  I remained to watch the waves curl over and break in a now blue, brown, orange, and purple ocean, with northern gales blowing the ashes of old fires made near the dunes.

I hid my keys in some sand and soot and black logs and took a run.  Nothing of a boardwalk, though there once was, no ferris wheel or concessions, only one motel far down the local highway near the park.  No real wave formations either, just thick swells that rolled in like cows.  I wasn’t going in anyway, I needed a full suit anyhow, and I was enthused for some swimming sometime later.  I passed by jellyfish, couples, and a couple girls who sifted down to the water’s edge.  One tugged on a dog incredibly reluctant to approach the ocean.

I then finished my run, a run to brush off my state of unemployment, occupy the time for fitness, nostalgia, beauty, and let me recollect on the past and what could be the present.  I am single, alone, and nowhere, a great premise but a difficult road, and beaches back home were warmer and more free of fires and fish.  I missed that sunset, and the next day it rained.

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