Ring the bell that you can ring
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything,
That's how the light gets in.
~Leonard Cohen
Let's all embrace our imperfections as, okay - don't flinch - attributes, values, incomparable visions of originality! How's that? But I think it's true. Let's forget about the cracks and let the light in.
Why is it so hard to make friends in L.A? Or is it just me? In
New York, I never seemed to have a problem. Perhaps, it was my destructive, late-night lifestyle. But whatever the reason, I have to believe there are ways to get to know people without making 'hiking dates' in
Griffith
Park.
I was going to start a book club but even the one I participated in in New York ended up to be a failure. It's not that I don't read. I read voraciously. But I'm also a little judgmental about the picks sometimes and, apparently, a little more laid-back about 'book club formalities' than some.
The first book club meeting I went to in New York was through my friend Nancy, who I think is the coolest on the planet, but the women there were all Yalies (I can make criticisms here since I too went to Yale) but these were the kind of Yalies I would never hang out with in college. They wore pashminas, drank mineral water, ate fat-free snacks and had made notes in the margins. I showed up with ripped jeans, a six-pack of Bud and no book - hadn't had a chance to read it let alone buy it. I mean, if I had been a homeless person pressing the buzzer I think they would have treated me better. Even when I had something of import to say (it wasn't that difficult to get involved in the conversation - interracial relations puh-leeze?) , they looked at me as if it must be the fleeting yet mundane clarity of a schizophrenic.
I love books. But I'm scared of book clubs. I really want to start one but I'm gun-shy. Maybe I should organize weekly bar crawls where no one is allowed to wear a pashmina and where
ripped jeans are mandatory.
versus
Take a vote...
Thursday, November 09, 2006
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There is this guy in our neighborhood of Silver Lake who spends most afternoons speedwalking in blue, athletic shorts, with no shirt, holding a neatly-folded newspaper and reading it AVIDLY WHILE he walks --- I still haven't determined what paper he's reading. Joe and I have wondered for months just what is up with this guy. We figured he was definitely crazy. Obsessive or compulsive in some way. Jobless (obviously because who would hire a shirtless speed-walking freak no matter how tanned his torso is and no matter how up to date on current events he is). So then, last week, I see him walking with two friends - sans newspaper. And they seem to be having a CONVERSATION. Like a normal social interaction. Then Joe comes home the other day and says his friend, Tami, lives next door to him and he's totally 'normal' - or whatever - and is an opthalmologist (did I spell that right?) So now I'm thinking I'm crazy. Is he just healthy and trying to committ to his workout at the same time he's keeping his eyes healthy? I feel like an asshole. And like I don't walk enough and my vision sucks.
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I'm staying at home today because no one wants to see my face. I had a bad day Monday -- well, bad, makes it sound much better than it actually was -- and I cried so hard that I burst a blood vessel in my eye. There is no longer any white in my right eye. The outside is no better. It looks like some cutting-edge Urban Decay make-up artist smeared blood-violet eyeliner and eyeshadow all over my eyelid. I tried to make the other eye match but I don't have any purple makeup.
The best part of it is it looks a little like someone punched me. I've always wanted to have a black eye. "Yes, I live a radical and violent life. I never know from one day to the next where I'll be sleeping or who will try to rape me." So I told the Chinese guy at my corner store that my boyfriend sometimes beats me. He didn't say anything. Just asked if I wanted three packs of Camels for the price of two. Still, I think, deep down, he cares.
So the crying jag was set off because I lost a briefcase containing all of my boss's financial information: bank accounts, credit card numbers, passwords, social security number -- everything anyone would ever need to know to royally screw up your life. Now, for the rest of my years on this decaying planet, I have to walk around knowing that I am responsible for any identity theft that might ever occur in this man's future. I have to quit my job. I'm not stable enough to be carrying around anyone's social security number.
Then I kept crying because of my life. I always thought that, by this point, I'd be a success. But for all intents and purposes, I'm kind of a nothing. Everyone tells me, "Oh, you should go to grad school." "Oh, you should write." But I want to act. And that's not happening but I refuse to cave. I'm holding out for the first quality reality show.
I looked for my copy of "Lost in Translation" but I guess I lent it to someone - someone who doesn't understand the depth of my dependence on that movie. I feel like Scarlett Johansson's character. Really what do you do with an English degree from Yale except make fun of people who don't know that Evelyn Waugh was a man? I just wish I had her ass and those sheer pink panties.
So, here I sit, watching "United 93" to cheer me up. Somehow, I feel it's my duty to absorb as many miserable details about September 11th as possible since it's my birthday. I even watched the HBO documentary that actually has extensive footage of those poor people hurling themselves out of flaming windows. I don't cut myself or anything. I just inflict inner pain.
I'm proud of myself, however, that I'm not reading "The Bell Jar" again. Instead, I'm flipping through Didion's "On Dying." It's really good. You know, if you like reading about death.
