1. Monday, September 30, 2002

    i was cutting my filet mignon in first class 

    jetting from miami to LAX thinking about how red meat doesn’t agree with me any more. thinking about how i don’t like hugh grant and i really don’t like him when he’s really good in really good movies like “about a boy.” i was doing my best to resist the luxury the rich have become used to. i was trying to keep it real.

    the blonde stewardess had a bottle of red in one hand and a bottle of white in the other. i was chewing on a mouthful of spinach salad and buttering my warm sourdough roll and i nodded towards the red.

    i wasn’t keeping shit real.

    i did have surfer shorts on, an ac/dc tshirt, marilyn manson on the mp3 cd player that my good buddy got me off my wishlist last year. but i was laughing at a film produced by the makers of bridget jones diary and about to dive back into a novel i was totally loving from the oprah book club.

    i knew things were really bad when i couldn’t keep my eyes off the clouds.

    they were amazing. i wasn’t on drugs. i wasn’t in love. i wasn’t emotional in any way, i was entranced by them. they were like rockstars up there, i couldn’t keep my eyes off of them and i couldn’t believe i was so close to them. i was in the front row, i was backstage, i was on stage.

    they were great flying over texas, they were great over new mexico. there weren’t any in palm springs but they were creeping that way and they covered the entire LA basin and as we made our descent they were like snow that had been skied over by thousands of vacationers. they were still. they were stoic. they had stories to tell about their creation. they were going somewhere. they were covering a news story. they were peeking at our lives.

    over miami they stole the sun and sifted the rays. in la they were the sunscreen. spf 75. in aruba they simply provided sunshowers, tears from the gods who had no beachtowels.

    it made me want to be a pilot. but only on cloudy days.

    this is the busblog and i wouldn’t be totally honest if i didn’t reveal that when i changed trains today at wilshire and vermont i took the wrong train for the first time in over a year. i took the train that wasn’t going to take me to work, but take me back home, where the gorgeous twenty year old was snoozing in my bed, hopefully dreaming of nice things instead of allowing the demons to whisper silly lies in her dreams.

    i don’t deserve any of the good that comes my way. for the record. i don’t deserve the incredibly delicious wine flavored au jus on my steak or the leather recliner or blonde stewardesses or the island girls, or the vacations, or the attentions, or the friends who pick me up at the airport, or the ones who call me upon arrival, or the raiders kicking ass, or you, or this, or that.

    but i will take it and i will appreciate it.

    and i will do my best not to lie so much the rest of this year.

    i stole an LA Times today from a machine and i don’t feel the slightest bit guilty.