Home and Not Dead

December 23, 2008

Okay… so I'm home.

I'm not going to explain how I got here, as if I do I'll become enraged and find a small creature to punch.  I will say, though, that I got to meet Larry David (whom I made laugh), got drunk at 9am with a mechanic (and screenwriter, of course) from Arkansas named Rodney, prowled through Miami International with a 50-something woman with big hair and a jiggly ass, and ate a sandwich that pulled the life out of my bottom.

I'm home now.

While in LA I got to: meet Mark Doty (whom I adore) and Dorothy Allison (of whom I thought a spectacular old douche), I ate good foodages, I got laid (I was very good), drank a lot, nearly cried when I said goodbye to my friends (who are gone, pretty much, for good now), played poker and melted a karaoke bar off the face of the planet – all while sick!

Now that I'm home I have to: endure Christmas nightmareness, write a series of penetrating and whimsical novels with Jamie (with whom I am creating a really amazingly wonderful friendship, despite the hysterical immaturity of some), clean my kitchen (not gonna happen), go on a date with a Latvian girl (not Latvian orthodox, sadly), cook, wash myself and write a million brilliant essays that coalesce the madness of existence into a resonant sheaf of poetic insight.

That and be fancy.

And I am terribly fancy.

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