The GINGO meat-eyed Eigenfaced hordes filled the entire stretch of coast of beach and you could not see the sand, but you could see the extension cords on the sand for all the decor and decorations and day lamp lights they insisted on taking to the beach, more hordes against the shoreline that could ever fit in all the swimmable ocean area, people either inappropriately swim suited exposing cottage ink cheese murals no one ever wanted to see, wretched soggy sandy food scraps just about everywhere, as also those so overdressed here also, like at the mall to take family photos, their entire clans, and music blaring that didn't never fit the beach scene.
When I figured it all out on my own, that Paul Smith, at his zenith in '95-'96, porno'd better in his pre hip hop poisoned look, when he no longer had dead poet's society cucumber salad bowl prince valium helmet hair centering, weighing down his gait, commanding where his head automatically looked down on the turned trick and which was what helped make him such a great porno star, and the cutting of such hair degenerating to his floppy bank swell swilling—correlating this all on my own to the Sampson myth, might have been when I first became a detective.
Discovering Hosoi's secret, he would look forward at the mark before just hitting it backside and then look behind back at the mark hit once lifted off past—this was precisely how he was able to vault so high, his advantage—the discovery of the phenomenology of looking back at the mark, from past the situation, is the mystery behind extra lift-off (besides meth), was when I became a detective.
And that the very tenuous shivering chihuahua of adage, everything happens for a reason, never begging the question, as to why tragedy still exists plainly in full view everywhere and always, and all the inexhaustible examples not once seemingly ever considered when the hand of justice never did quite come so swooping out, and evil ones in this world still very well prosper over the likes of you and me, and for those to still insist, to come to the conclusion, such that everything happens for a reason—when I discovered Ravi Shankar, Maharishi, Beatles—was all total frauds, was when I became detective.
When too late in life I finally discovered that my high school classmate always accidentally bumped her arm against me and would instantly apologize 'Oops sorry', and I would feel dismayed she'd even feel the need to apologize touching me, for her to feel the need to say sorry instead of wordlessly insisting is was a given to touch me, and then in middle age realizing that had maybe been a part of the smokescreen of her flirting to all my scaredy cat apprehension, realizing this so catastrophically so late in my life, is when I became a detective.
And when I figured out all on my very own as a pre-teen, why someone would bother to burn an otherwise lovely bouquet of dried flowers on their very own in the sink, is exactly when I became a detective.
I am the space where the 405 the 605 and the 22 meet, creating some concrete surfable slant bank of incidence that goes no where into dead end in the middle of nowhere,
And as but what little guests I ever have, I am the alternate path of entering the only bathroom of the apartment through the closet instead of through the one bedroom of my converted unit,
I am accidental abstraction taking on valence different from the usual modernist associations of transcendental purity, like drunk tank pink monochrome,
Or in the treeless shadeless postmodern street course food court pavilions designed by all's email's user-subjects for over athletic all's email's user-subjects—I am the silently pining cruise ship carnival carillion water park hubba, in lust for the fantasize-able turned tricks by the next crop of horny factory ams,
I am all filmer fetishization of all new pathetic best HD technology and instrument, I am a five thousand dollar hobbyist lense for juggling-video demonstration documentation for all filmer's who never watch films,
I am the space in the exact turn from first time harmless happenstance home movie neighborhood buddy filmer, their filming responding to a practical imperative to with wonder capture first hand the sole enlightened skateboarder homie of the likes they have not previously witnessed, this, the economizing of filming their one skater friend and the success of that streaking into the filmer now becoming known and popular from filming such skater, and then the filmer becomes in demand with all too horny outsiders flocking to them, the now acclimated filmer now stifling the suggestions of what the first friend now wants to film, to now the filmer ending up now mostly flaking out on them when booking dates, or when they do actually link up the filmer now inviting multiple skaters to film against them and to use as distraction such to conveniently miss attempts or makes, and to keep all new clips in clip jail under the new presumption of the clips now being the filmer's 'intellectual property', this all descending into taking complete takeover of all aesthetic decisions of the video and video with it—I am this happening hundreds of times all around Los Angeles and spiralling the entire industry into recession,
I am all the unknown overproduction that can only now get sold through the new mystery box economy of all the shop's unsellable, the over-bought of those who had capital and, the attendant companies fashioning past all the dormant rearguard twee for new Welcome and Weekend graphics logo logorrhea,
I am everyone has too much footage, so much footage the activity's logical operation of overactivity generating and activity morphing into supplement skits more lurid than pornos,
I am and one of these days I may very well call CPS for parents filming their kids to death,
I am the the fall out from all of Tiago Lemos' tech formalism vacation utopia self determinist collegiate font FUBU-isms,
I am the having to like it, at risk of being seen as sour never-has-been, as assumed by all newly initiated and everyone objectively unqualified to have an opinion who just now showed up—
I am all the neo-con faux wavvy Powell Peralta post postmodern Pippi Longstocking post-Gonzing no media safe houses of it all,
I am libertarian New Balance pants stanning in all the approximation of all action industrious youtuber's egalitarian HGTV apartment renovation b-side sense of eclecticism,
I am beach tank top knobbing surrogate for the illusion of continuation of the illusion of the conception of some ripe old historical underground legacy, keeping now sentimental hard-on for Gravis Footwear,
I am the Brixtonification denim-ing of a motorcycle time bandits-ing Heath Kirchart Emerica skate anti aesthetic awaying days from all og Etnies cup fallen plaza utopias,
I am the region's enterprising youtuber explaining a-way a subculture's secrets, but still not quite hitting the mark, I am an over-posting Spamsoc-ing of what was once underground,
I am the auto parts chain store's how to change your oil complimentary promotional video Edgaring tip tricks instructional IG-ing, I am the not knowing that trick tips never work because of industry variations in an unstandardized undercarriage non-universalized pivot cup tolerance,
I am the self righteousness of the olympian thirst trap peeing on Underworld Element and Mad Circle without knowing it, but even if they did, I am the they still not caring about it even if they knew about it—I am all the wave runner brave new world make up tutorial narrative audacity of it all, and I am all the obvious evidence of thirst trap skater girl's online superiority complex towards the all sandwiched men subjecthood who are still better at skating than them, but are still disposable social media app panopticon subjecthood cannon fodder, I am the space between all thirst trap girl skater considered and not considered non-interaction online hierarchy,
I awoke in some room in the chile powder foothills not knowing where I was or who I was, like I had just been zapped back into Led Zeppelin existence.
In the living room, Los Angeles local noon news was being sprayed onto ray tube by razor beam—at Paramount Studios apparently, production shaved an orangutan completely nude, but then the orangutan got loose somehow, made it's very way North down to Hollywood Boulevard, scaring tourists, trapping them out in the front side coves of Grauman's—the freak beast only leaving shrieks gum running and braying all the way West towards Fairfax and apparently it was still looming at large.
Goddam, why didn't I think of that . . . Joaquin saying to himself, Joaquin up before me, not noticing me hovering there.
Catching J staring at the television, I hovered as useless as policeman, in some living room vigilance stand-by of doing nothing.
Joaquin sees me, I swear, I must be losing my edge, Belane . . .
Pardon . . . not hearing quite what Joaquin just says.
I says you want breakfast? I got some real good juicy Chorizo—oh wait, I think we out no tienes no Chorizos—I do have coffee though, I'll make some more, more—got sweet and low too . . .
Sounds, yeah yeah, that sounds or perfect—actually, Man . . .
Joaquim loamed up from the couch and over into the reassurance of the Memphis deco percolator kitchen attached to living room. The middle of the day is when el dia esta deado, but the kitchen's optimism intended to get us surviving until the sun reaches us safely over onto the other side. A framed Joost Schmidt poster enlivened the kitchen scene, a useless wooden Sophie Taeuber like replica marionette of geometric cones and cylinders was hung by its strings at the window above the knife dada sink. In the cabinets, a couple of Emmy Hennings-like bitch stitched ragdolls sat next to the pissed dishes.
Hey Jake, I got, got this this good seasalt water from Palm Springs—it's really good to flush your nose out with . . .
Well, make sure you know exactly what your snorting this time—you know it burns somethin' awful mixed with tunchii.
Where did that come from? Rooney, some slender wand of girl, materialized into the Roon room as if from vapour, just as she came into this world from bleeped nothing—punch drunk disoriented, I intuited she still wasn't home though—Rooney now confirming my preternatural instincts all wrong.
I ain't got no tunchiis, I haven't touched that stuff in, or a while, Babe—you know that! If the DEA was camped in a laundry truck across the street, they could have heard by naked ear Joaquim answer back to Roon Dawggg.
Off Rooney was to go apparently but now she still lingered, and I wanted her to go already. Rooney stone cold frozen, cozen in replica Victorian frill stone washed denim jacket, her 1940's Veronica Lodge loves Reggie black bangs hair, like she was about to run un-procrastinated responsible errands connected to some Woolsworthian Los Angeles historical. Rooney was the only actress in Los Angeles how knew skate tricks take on a symbolic significance and become outmoded as a result of their logical operations and as result of over-use into exacerbation—such that one would have to keep it moving ahead of all normies. Rooney had the typical self referential non-prescription clear frames look also, signaling as if she has her affairs so sewed up, all so seemingly well beyond the personal organization of pretty much anyone of the earth's population, even—and me, me, now still-drunk, still-born, old hat—I felt caste class systems bellowing below her now—the only redeeming thing factoring in though, was that I may have been roosting on the rooftop with her husband last night.
Hi Rooney—I'm Jake, it's a pleasu—
I know who you are, Detective Belane.
No, no please, my close friends call m—
Roon rudely walked past going right over to Joaquin, then picking up her Muffy—I didn't notice last night, but Muffy was fluffy and obese—Roon now held Muffy out at Joaquin, with it's middle body choked by her un-horny handmaiden hands, Muffy almost slipping from tenuous claspy grasp—and Muffy, for once in it's life, a look of confusion in its otherwise cold and heartless eyes.
Joaquin over'd the braying Braun grinder, turning off the noise in response, as if it was a domestic disaster she should be trying to hand the cat over to him, Get that THING—
Muffy had a braying, unjustifiably smug, indifferent Caroline Levitt fat faced incuriosity to itself.
Stop, your making Muffyrumplekins grumpy, grumps . . .
If I even but had the power, Dear . . .
Muffy Mumps, tell Papa be niiice at meee . . . Rooney's patience testing playful girl voice, but the background giggle of her voice, some miracle. Roon now smiles because she's puppetering the cat and she even smiles back at me now all in her own amusement.
Rooniee!
Tell Papa just how swee—
Joaquin refusing hand off again, balked back smothered like John Belushi about to od at the Muska Maramont, Rooney! I'm—really—not joking anymore, okay! Stop. Stop—stop. Just.
Roon sat expressionless Muffy gently genteel onto the white scuffed wood floor, Well somebody obviously just woke up on wrong side of the scuppernong arbor . . .
Whatever, Man . . .
Rooney, even now at home, more inscrutable than black Zurich dada, over to the kitchen she goes, asks Joaquin where the paper knife is so she can grapefruit her elbow.
After puckering rinds on the buckle of her arm, Roonie lets out an exhaust of frustrated breath, Oh, spit.
What, what's wrong, Babe—Joaquin says as if they had not just been bickering, hasteining me to think of the Frank O' Hara line, in times of crisis we must all decide again and again who to love.
My hands, my hands . . . Roon disarmed in resign.
What your hands, Joa with innocent cartoon character like concern, like he was Roon's imaginary friend only she could see.
I'm used, that stupid La Luna body lotion I was flowed, now my hands have the scent of orange pink aspirin . . .
Why you don't wash or wash your hands—Joaquin in most sincere innocent tender suggestion.
Would be wasteful—and besides I'll appreciate it more when I use something else later . . .
Joaquin methodically chopping, and sluicing, dividing and subdividing and shredding the imperial trooper tooth powder on the white tray on the cruel Kubrick white counter using translucent plastic red medical razor that he had to rip out of thick plastic sanitized serial numbered packaging—griding them out now against an old wooden Laurel Canyon little house on the prairie old studio system child actor studio lot school house ruler. The lines were invisible on the large white tray—the lines, in a rupture between existing and not being seen—such displacement casting a spell to give it a much cleaner high—something Narcotics Anonymous never talks about or ever suggest in their meetings.
Roonie looking preternaturally young, like Carson McCullers, walks past the island unphased, barely glancing at Joa now, Roon Dawgg all but justifying the angel dust all in her casual just aware of it even if just barely observing like an extra in her own life—how the so apparent, how the Santa Fe textile blanket in the back of the clockwork orange orange Laurel Canyon Sabb realism of the Mara household, how the so of it all made to seem so commonplace or even practical, as to so beckon being inspired to even snort the blood dust up in front of her now.
You know this town, Jake, this town, the problem with this town, Belane—it's people with less talent givin' the ones with the talent such difficult time doin' what they's otherwise was put on this earth to do—but you know, ya know how they do it—it's under the widely prevalent impression that they's are just supposedly reeling them back, just keeping them grounded, in some supposed sense of frugality that what is otherwise their complete lack of imagination,
Joaquin stopping cutting the lake of flake, standing up from being bent over on the counter, gesturing now authoritatively with the cake razor to make his point in unintentional slightly less convincing way, Not just in a grand universal sense, but even an unnecessary everyday practical misguided administrational sense. And when they puttin' out a compilation—you know's the last person they want to see is the artist—they hope he might as well be dead so he won't interrupt the session . . . But then, what the hell do I know . . .
Oh, please—like you've even had the slightest bit resistance getting a project off the ground in this town, Rooney countering, sitting on a black Archie soda pop fountain barstool by the island, while tenaciously, over-productivly looking down using a seam sew pick needling on what looked like a jet black skirt—you could tell she should have been doing this sitting over on the swinger's couch, but instead she was next to us at the island near.
Do you know why?
Of course not, and I'm not asking, Rooney, too much concentrating on her needle picking.
Because I know it's easier to cut through the center of the pie than through the crust, right, Bay Bay! Joaquim crashing against Rooney in Chippendale pelvis dance, both hands on the back of his head.
You Pig. Get off of me!
Some troughs ain't big enough for all the hogs! Or maybe some are!
Okay. Okay. Okay, Rooney personal space crowded, clearly now pushed to brink.
Look! You messed me all up.
Joaquin stops and looks seriously at the skirt, No, it's fine, Babe, it looks fine, Joaquin slightly missing the point.
I think Joaquin and Rooney met working on a picture about artificial intelligence video game cartridges—some Archie comic non-historical future, where the artificial intelligence were always just for some reason wanting to engage with humans in video game flirt texting using the ping-pong control scroll—the Ai was always unnecessarily spurring such pillow talk whenever a conversation with an unsuspecting human reached some end or nadir or conclusion—the cartridge knew, the cartridge knew it was able to exploit physical linguistic slippages and seque that knowledge into the knowledge of presupposed parallel conceptual existential slippages also being possible because of the existential slippage's very own reflexive self implied ontological possibility and very own self concept—existential slippages automatically ride-able like a raft by the Ai (probably bc of their bleepy bodies), theoretical and then actually actual because of the reality the theoretical pointed toward, as the Ai was itself able to attach to the host by all the endless linguistic slippages, and so an actual Ai body snatch was made possible when they cyber text talked to the cartridge's subscribers—the artificial intelligence's souls were able to spill into the human's bodies and be harvested to get their own bodies from all the new future babies eventually birthed by the otherwise unsuspecting humans of the downtown skyscraper megalopolis Japan city commune, overriding all the real rightful baby souls that had been waiting all this time—but once the babies could talk, it was not clear if the video game cartridges even now liked their new bodies—the movie ends with the Ai brain babies now middle aged still wanting to go back inside their old plastic shells, but they can't (and besides, all the shells years ago, well probably all sent to a landfill in a country far away), the movie closes with a group of them at some big haughty dinner smugly celebrating, remembering to wonder where the original baby souls may have been displaced.
Guess who played the voice of the perpetually dissatisfied Ai.
Roon you got to go—Jake, Jake is going to give me a crisis personality test—he's going to process me! You have to leave—or vacate the house for this—
Well what a jolly boring thing to do . . .
Well Sweettits, he convinced me to do it last night. It has to be, don't or I'm telling you—Jake, you know you could sell a foreskin off a high llama . . .
Roonie darts me some imperious look, Or to this high llama, at least. Well drat, I was just about to leave anyways okay . . .
Rooney registering me kind of for the third time ever, turned to her default polite setting, It was a pleasure to meet you Detective Belane.
Rooney—it's Jake! Please, Jake!
Rooney replied nothing, walked out of the Roon room, returned from the auxiliary with her oversized dry cleaning bag carrying it like a good ant, she grabbed her seatbelt purse and gave Joaquin a reassuring kiss on the cheek while he was over-preoccupied grinding more tortilla flour down with a scientific porcelain mortar and pestle, as if grinding down corn into fine chile powder maztecas. She very sweetly, compassionately whispered into his ear, don't have too much fun on your play date—then Roon put on an oversized black bomber jacket from the hallway closet over hear stone washed 80's meth chic Victorian frill jean jacket before proceeding to bounce out.
And better not go rummaging into my Dragon Girl juice,
Don't worry, we didn't, I mean we ain't gonna touch your Dragon Girl juice, Joaquin adds while the front door closes behind Roon.
I mean and I'm just saying, and besides Joaquim, if I give a girl clap, gave a girl clap, you best bet my board co at the very least better damn well have my back,
Right as I was saying this Rooney walked back in because apparently she forgot her keys, incidentally catching the very worst of what came out of my mouth, away from it's proper frame of context—it seemed like she was always doing this.
A paused and contained exasperation registered with Roonie, as if the entire universe watched her and she never had a moment alone, as if performing for an unseen audience even in such little moments—as illustrating an actor lives differently from people who don't act.
A bit taken by this small misread of moment, chafed of very air, I unnecessarily announced, Okay, well, well, I'm gonna—I'm gonna just go out to my car and get the processing kit—please excuse me.
You know Jake, I always found something third rate about the Mexican bourgeois, Joaquin blocks off a nostril, puts his nose up to the tray, throws the dust into his blood.
The lines were in a pristine Bochner grid, and impossibly straight—you got the feeling this was the kind of small details of rigour and taking pride in everyday overlooked things characteristic of Lauren's Canyon. The measured out grid is designed so your snort is the ends of the grid, the length of the grid's predetermined line ends were supposedly the perfect measured sparkle in eye amount.
Yazingah! Joaquin over snorting against all debris fall off, as if all his very near future buzz depended on it. Joaquin threw his head back and with his head upside down, backed into the sink, turned on the faucet, took a scoop of water from his palm and blew it through his nose as if beset by acrobat balancing emergency.
I do love the chewy art commune mash blend nose caulk Jake, the impurities and chemicals and all, but you can't, you really can't beat the imperial medicinal talc, I'm quite afraid.
I'm afraid I feel my finger nails numb,
Has she I wonder, always been so impossible to please,
What—
Or what did you call it . . .
Forty virgins in the shallow end?
No no, the jigger—the jigger just gets bigger and bigger, you says—
Well, I mean, well woop dee do right?
But we're like, or were like, it was like Hey!, ya said. . .
Right—right.
That that was just it, the deal is done you said . . .
What, bags and racks and the needle tracks?
What, no.
Or just some red headed lollapalooza?
What did you say.
People, people—are just faint smudges . . . that's all,
More and more it seems like I exist to manage Roon Dogg's domestic affairs, but really, really I don't mind, quite frankly, Joaquin completes his statement by abruptly blocking off a nostril and snonking off the honk space off grid square that would positively make Duffy or Duff Mckagan seek some kind of early retirement.
There are many who die of the lancet than the lance my friend, some who die from love surgery, I'm very afraid . . .
Putting on my spectacles that made me look respectful but leaden, undermining the sexiness of the processing module of my very own design, Joaquin and I sit on the small circle kitchen table with the Space Mountain Epcot retro base.
Okay, look, just relax Joaquin—but realize everything you say will leave a permanent impression.
Joaquin stiffened a little, pulled the beer bottle gamely as if in affirmation this was still ostensibly some game to pay extra attention to. This was not a game.
Okay, let's begin. Best skater of all time
Jay Adams.
Favorite pro
Vince Thornton, underrated. Bruce Logan, George Orton, Bauman, Blackheart—like whatever Man.
Oh God, Thornton old boy. Okay, Dream spot.
Fruit Bowl in Garden Grove, I don't know. Badlands in Upland? Baldy—I mean, take your pick, Bud.
Favorite video part
Sick Boys, San Francisco section, Brandon Chapman—suuuuicideee is no solutttionnn.
Favorite era
Zorlac Metallica.
Favorite contest
Upland series.
Best style
Of all time? Or now?
All time.
Dressen,
Favorite am
Bartleby Rizner.
Favorite hardgood
Dice Clay Wheels.
Dream trick
I—um, I don't—know—no! Honolulu loop!
Okay. Dream deck
Naked blank—Naked the company, not naked blank.
Fav skate band
Agent Orange.
Taking off my glasses and wiping my eyes in pained exasperation, as I was the only one doing the real work in Laurel Canyon this early afternoon.
What, what is it Jake? Did I do something wrong?
Yes. I'm stopping this session early—your problem is you are incredibly out of touch and behind the times, delusional even. All your answers are all wrong.
Like, are you kidding me,
George Orton?
What—he rips, meanest thruster.
Joaquin.
That's like—my answer. You said there were no wrong answers.
No, I didn't say that—I says everything you say will make a permanent mark.
Okay, well I said Rick Blackheart—what about him?
What about him what. What about him nothing. Rick Blackheart? C'mon man. You can fool Rooney, you can fool yourself, which you most certainly are, but you can't fool me.
Well, actually, you really can't full Rooney.
Joaquin, your favorite skater is Tim McKinney . . .
How did you know that—
Because your favorite skater is really Tim Brauch, but you want to say something in line but unexpected . . .
Fair enough. Damn—Damn, okay.
And I see what you are doing. I seen it all . . .
Okay, well if if —I get you to take your own test.
Oh, dear old Chum—I'm certainly much more worse off than you.
No, Belane—it's you're turns, you're turn—give me the module.
Joaquim takes a pull of his beer as if best preparing him to moderate the screening.
Best skater of all time
Jay Adams.
Okay, okay, Belane—Favorite pro
Sal.
Dream spot
Wash.
Favorite video part
Quy Nguyen Prime video, that one—Van Morrison Moondance. I remember when that came out. The new clean era, new postmodern boomer music sensibility, new media half sentimental irony but still with the meaning of it all—The Big Chill for Gen X, the eternal spring of all that it conjured—the atmosphere it embodies and projects, how I perceive that exact moment then and in the future, the abstraction it encapsulates. Get choked just thinking about it.
Damn. Okay, okay Belane. Favorite era
Probably Questionable to early clean.
Favorite contest
Vanc Slam City wooden floors, especially as documented in the middle black and white montage in the Deluxe video, Ride On.
Best style
Lowndes,
Favorite am
Zoo Conor.
Favorite hardgood
Everslick Gabriel Looney Toon Wrestler football, lowrider Sal everslick—but really, Carroll's Wolverine barnstorming Golden Gate.
Dream trick
Nine foot Japan out of launch ramp in Venice in a basketball tank top—and I loathe basketball jerseys.
Fav ska band
Kirk and the Jerks.
Favorite skate city
SF.
One thing every skater should be able to do
Play and slay guitar, catch tail and make 'em wail, walk away.
Biggest pet peeve
ALL Barcelona footage.
Corniest co
Flip in 2001.
Worst trend
Emerica motorcycle helmet cuffed normie denim anti-aesthetic era, Emerica button downs killing button downs, when skater in buttondown used to be such a specific look. Long frizzy tattoo hair, broccoli hair. Ali Boulala third rate hipsterisms.
Hardest trick
Muting Delores.
Joaquim takes a hard, well earned working man's pull from his beer to get a better think, looking intently at the laminated module.
Wait, is that Delores the street, or your Delores?
That's why I'm the one who usually administers the test, Joaquin.
Joaquin looks back at the laminated module perplexed, turns it around and looks at the blank white back of nothing.
Damn, Jake. You really are one cool motherfucker.
So thens the stewardess says 'Commissioner, I don't think the chile con queso is supposed to taste that way!'
A look of bemusement occupies my face, the punchline hits deferred and then disarms my polite bemusement melting into honest silent chuckle.
Commissioner, I don't think think the chile con quesos was supposed to taste that ways! Joaquin bringing it back home again, in a way that reinforces and cements our shared solidarity.
With Catskill timing, Roon came right through the front door, overhearing the punchline to a joke she had probably already been subjected to and well already been taken and held hostage under—we were both real surprised she was back so quickly though, I may not have quite noticed it was already dark. Roon no longer had her dry cleaning bag but was carrying flowers she had probably bought herself, she still had her or Joaquin's bomber jacket still on, and it may have been very apparent she had been doing some drinking of her own.
Baby, baby—come over her. Where. Have. Youuu. Beeen. Hey you look like you been having a good nite too . . .
Roonie a bit blushed, though more loosened up now, plops does she into Joaquin's lap and beaks a drunken peck of kiss on the side of his face, unmistakable intoxicated feminine devotion glassing her eyes. She didn't even look like herself in the candle and corner lamplight, as if real beauty is amorphous and is prone to shifting in the gaze of eye or cyclops lense—I thought she looked like combination of maybe Claire Forlani and Natalie Portman now. I then do the thing where I looked at Rooney as if she was simply a naked X-ray skeleton sitting in Joaquin's lap.
No prayer or fireworks could commemorate such scene to any knowing witness' satisfaction. Under the strong spell of the stardust and combined with the scene proffering in such aggressive idealism, I could not help but be completely charmed just being there seeing her arrive home to-night, just being there when Rooney arrived home, it was all too splendidly quaint and whiringly bewitching. Rooney and Joaquin's was a nice place, a very nice place.
The house enclosed by tall shrub wall blocking the view of the wind-ey (like winding a clock) outside, was a dark ambient backdrop lighted by precise lights in the shrubs and along the path, which could be seen from the kitchen window, in the safe in plain existence of quiet specific Laurel Canyon hip calmness space and home. The idealism of their home, even projected ideal bars possibly close nearby, and lovely closed off space of old restaurants, and a well maintained and eclectic intuitively conceived neighborhood convenient store, all surely existing beyond, frequenting these places like auxiliary extension to their home, to which they will return, like living in a mansion, going to the country club for a break and the reassurance of then coming home back to the mansion. This was the same feeling, except the mansion was a modest sized craftsman style with interiors appointed in a way no interior designer could ever concoct or contrive better than dear Rooney.
Ah, Horatio wanted me to go meet him out at Cockatoo Inn for a drink, he and Beverly just had some colossal spat apparently.
Joaquin turns to me in bemused intoxication, Horacio was Rooney's or was, bestfriend, college, and I'm convinced he's stillll in love with her—got him to even move out here—but no dice Horacio!
Rooney sighed, Well, I got him out of Rockport at least, and how therefore did I get him to leave that Susan too—a feat of engineering I am still quite proud of very, Rooney at the edge of couch prudishly perched.
And what about you Jake? Have you been taking it easy on my Joaquin with your physiological processing and personality tests?
How heavenly it is to see you again! I resolutely exclaimed with sincere admiration, not even flirting, over fueled by stoke and everything else—when such a thing to do could otherwise be catastrophically poisonous hazardous, especially in this one Mr. Ed horsed town—expressing over-sentiment, I sensed Rooney feeling my sincerity and it was totally fine.
Rooney held back a faint smirk, in gamely way, pulling her charisma in. She looks at the grid of dust on the tray now on the living room table, gets on her comfortable knees as if she was playing canasta at the ski lodge, and snorks up one of the ends off the grid, still looking like the most responsible person in LA county, perhaps.
I get up and switch the music not really thinking, just giving myself something to do—I take a detour from the J. Gelis Band to Lou Reed's Greatest hits double CD—not reading track list, I push the narrow arrow button a couple of times, Sweet Jane comes on announcing itself.
Oh you just fucked me right here! I love this song! Rooney stops, now tripped out caught up in the moment.
Standin' on the corner . . .
Suitcase in my hand . . .
Roon stand grooving, singing with a this is my life girl like self referentiality right along, sings, Jack is in his corset and Jane is in her vest . . . And me I'm in a Rock n' Roll band, but the thing is is then Roon goes HUH! purposefully a half second too early and then Lou's HUH! immediately follows deliberately right after—like Rooney has been playing the song all along and the song responds to her inside of it, and I have never in my life seen a person do a song like that.
Hey Joaquin, you know this part? I quiz him from across the room.
Roon was now back in his lap, her wrap of tender and loving arms softly around him, as they were conversing so chipper, Joaquim looks up like rooks rising right away, sensing the immediate dog whistle of skate trivia—
Oh, I know it, damn—I can't, can't think of it—Steve Olson!
John West—Foundation Video.
You loose, I went coked to donkey ears, but then I realized Joaquin was no longer listening to me and back in their own conversation, some un-heard thing, and it was more as if I was just saying it to myself now. Talking to myself in the moment of coke. Oh, what a lark! Oh, what a plunge!
Roon interrupts their convo, starts mouthing—indeed she did,
You know some people like to go out dancin' . . .
Splayed, she went,
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