Dont Mince Words

I remember walking home with smoke and ash following me.
I remember looking back every few paces to try to understand.
I remember communicating by IM because phone service was spotty.
I remember sitting in my Park Slope, Brooklyn backyard drunk, staring at the ash.
I remember the grounding silence and smiling at the fighter jets.
I remember coughing up black soot and sneezing for days.
I remember hugging people – all of us happy to be alive.
I remember the burning pile smell, which didn’t dissipate until Thanksgiving.
I remember serving food to disgusted pile workers.
I remember going to the fence to cry and pray for the victims.

I had one of those oh-no-you-didn’t experiences today in the bank. I was waiting in line when I realized a classic song from my youth was on the sound system.

Why would this be disturbing? The ‘80s have been “in” for several years now. Well, it was The Clash. It would have been funny, in a bank, if they were playing “Brand new Cadillac.” But no, this was “Rock the Casbah” and it wasn’t the Musak version – it was the true Clash version.

I stood there bobbing my head and humming the lyrics and realized the last time I really, really enjoyed this song was in college. I was at a frat party, dancing in beer puddles and wearing my Converse Chuck Taylor hightops, a pencil skirt, a big white shirt, and a black hip belt. My hair was an asymmetrical mess: the Thompson Twins meets A Flock of Seagulls.

The teller called me as I was finishing my lyrics. “You know, I was a DJ for two colleges. If the ‘80s are helping you sell product here, I can help you with your play list,” I told her.

She smiled and handed me my three rolls of quarters. I realize seeing things come back around is part of getting older. Maybe I should recapture my youth and find my skirt. Time for a trip to The Gap.

I didn’t think it was possible to top my weirdest date ever (see 3/2/04 blog), but this is Los Angeles where dreams are created and crushed daily.

Huff was four days into his 40th year when I met him for happy hour. He was east coast bred and came out here several years ago to pursue screenwriting with sci-fi and horror as his genre of choice.

I was half-way through my margarita when it was apparent we were talking all business. Then he asked me if I’d be his writing partner. Since I don’t mix the money with the honey, I went into full-on business mode, cancelled all romantic notions, and talked about some of my creative ideas.

“God, you are intelligent. I know we can make this work,” was all he had to say to get me back to his place to review his screenplays and other business ideas.

When I sat down on the sofa, I thought he had an inordinate about of liquor in his apartment. But, so did Hemingway. Shortly after getting me ice water, he ran to his bedroom and came back with a Snoop Dog big ass bag of pot. The last time I saw this much weed it was in the back of a trunk on COPS.

I gave the “I’m good” sign while he fired up. He proceeded to tell me his big business idea. Like most creatives with no business sense, his idea was flawed. I went easy on him and tried not to use the big SAT words, but I did inquire about the basics: target market and revenue stream.

Though stoned, he got even more excited. “You really do know what you are talking about,” he said.

He ran to the bedroom again and came back with a shopping bag. He got a goofy look on his face and said, “I’ve got 600 whippets. Do you want to do some? They are totally legal. I got them off the internet.”

Now I was in an interesting predicament. I opted to put my game face on and to get out the door shortly there after. Of course, the COPS-watching train wreck side of me knew if I’d stay a little bit longer, I’d have a great story.

I chewed on my ice while the stoner huffed on his N20 cartridge. About a minute later, the drug had set in. I smiled at him and feigned interest when I realized he was focusing on my tits. And then he smiled. He reminded me of the Dennis Hopper character in Blue Velvet.

“You seem like a pretty open-minded woman. I have a question… .or a proposal for you. I have a 19 year-old Asian submissive I spank. She has daddy issues and says she needs a mommy. Would you be interested in joining us?” he asked.

There you go. Thanks for that nugget. THAT made this evening worth it. A 40 year-old unsuccessful screenwriting stoner huffer with dominant tendencies has asked me to beat up an Asian girl one year over the age of consent.

“You know, I’m not really into threesomes, but I’m flattered you’d consider me,” I said.

I channeled Meryl Streep a few minutes longer and eventually got out of my real-time horror story by stating I needed to get home to finish editing a piece (his!).

Writers since the dawn of time have used drugs to induce and enhance creativity. Huff smokes pot and inhales whippets to get his horror and sci-fi ideas. I just date and I get material.

Are bad dates my high?