ham fisted theatrics

At one point on Friday I am going to walk across the street to the ATM. I figure on listening to music while I do it, so I pull out my industry-standard big chunky headphones with the long cord. Then I think, in my limited experience, people don’t so much wear the chunky headphones out here. In New York where everyone has a backpack or a bag or something to put big chunky headphones in, they’re ubiquitous. But I don’t feel like you see them a lot in L.A. I am very in my head about it for two to three minutes. Then I say “fuck it” and go out into the afternoon, cord swinging.

Later, Donald and I drive to the Santa Monica Pier while listening to a best-of-Michael-Jackson mix. Beforehand, on the way down in the elevator, he shares with me the fact the “Door Closed” buttons in elevators don’t actually work. They haven’t for a long time. They’re just there to give you a sensation of control.

It is an odd thing to recall on a sunny afternoon in California, but “Human Nature” is one of the great night time in New York songs. Play it back to back with “I Can’t Help It” off “Off The Wall” at your next roof party. You’ll wanna take the whole skyline home with you. I played “I Can’t Help It” at a party Donald had last year and it’s one of my best New York memories, and all that happened is I dropped a needle on a record and looked straight ahead.

The first thing we do is buy hot dogs on sticks from a stand labeled “HOT DOG STICK.” The employees of HOT DOG STICK have to wear old-school nerdy uniforms, big red/blue/yellow/white stripes. A kid is staffing the booth while his girl-employee counterpart is sitting on the curb outside chatting with friends.

A father and his little girl are behind us in line. The girl says she sees a hole in the fence and they should just sneak into the boardwalk area where the games are. “They have guards there,” her dad says. “The guards have guns.” Jesus, Dad.

One of the girl-employee’s friends breaks off and starts hitting on the kid behind the counter hardcore. “I can just give you a ride,” she says. He protests that he has to go home after work before he goes to wherever they'll see each other later. “I don’t want to make a double trip,” she says. He is doing the general I-want-to-talk-to-you-but-I-have-to-work split-focus thing. Dude, hot dog kid. Accept the ride.

We walk up the stairs to where the carnival games and stuff are. By the time we reach the end of the pier, the sun is starting to set and it’s getting cold. It’s a rare June opportunity to wear a hoodie with the hood up. I am also not talking, and I have a beard, so even if I’m not brooding or being introspective, it looks for all the world like I am. Men and boys are fishing, some of them tending to multiple fishing poles. This would be a good place to run two-bit hustles with the street kid I have taken underneath my greasy wing.

There is a street musician at the end of the pier all bundled up, singing in Spanish into a microphone and playing guitar over a pre-recorded backing track. Donald says, “Is that guy lip-syncing?” We watch him for a long time, and we become convinced that he is.

On the way back to the car, we stop and watch people practice at an outdoor trapeze school for a while. It’s right there on the pier, among the rides and games. I think I could be just fine behind closed doors in an indoor trapeze facility, but I’m sure I would blow it when it came time to try shit out in the open air on a Friday night in front of a lot of gawking dudes in Famous Stars And Stripes hats and tight black t-shirts who had just won stuffed gangster aliens for their girlfriends.

"This place is like high school," Donald says, right for a reason I can't pin down.

Two teenage boys walk by us, one visibly nerdier than the other. “Craig, you’re my mother!” the less nerdy one says, exasperated. “I am!” the nerdy one says. It is rare that the protagonist of the movie you don't know you're an extra in and his geeky friend walk right by you like that.

We are back in the car and driving home. A girl is running on the sidewalk, then she stops on the corner and drops her jean shorts. She is wearing a dress, but it's still kind of an abrupt disrobing. She sees me see her do this, and laughs.

I bought an E.T. keychain, E.T. riding in the basket of Elliot’s bike, for a buck ninety nine in the junk store across the street from my apartment in Queens a few months ago. At some point on Friday, I take my keys out and the bike and E.T. have come loose from the keychain, leaving Elliot hanging there, hood up, knees bent, arms out, like he’s jumping out of an alley to mug somebody. This is a big bummer. The keychain itself was on the large side but I liked it a lot and was happy I found it.

That night, Dan and I get dinner from Taco Zone, a taco truck in Echo Park in the parking lot of a supermarket that our buddy Eric recommended. It seems like the place to go if you are two guys. Most every party standing around the taco truck is two guys, or multiples of two guys. They have a bucket full of drinks and the only soda they have is cans of regular Coke, a simplicity that’s probably unintentional but that I appreciate a lot. When people would be mad that we were out of particular soda when I used to bartend at UCB, my general feeling was, “Hey, shut up.” The tacos are outstanding and six tacos and two sodas run us nine dollars and seventy five cents.

We eat standing in the supermarket parking lot off the trunk of my car. It is the second time that day I have been out with someone and not been able to talk. It’s actually not so bad. There is the occasional writing-something-down-and-passing-it for a specific question but mostly I employ a finger-whirling “say more stuff” gesture. When we’re finished, I walk back to the taco truck, drop our greasy paper plates in a trashcan, and then I drive us home.

Twitter tells me there was a spontaneous Michael Jackson dance party tonight (Saturday) at UCBTNY. The first or third thing I thought when I found out he died was "there better be a party at UCB tonight." The man saved our ass in the DJ booth so many times over the years. It took 'till the weekend but you came through. I love you guys.

Eliza has an incredible personal tribute, very fun and simple and awesome. I love the phrase "Punk-Except-For-This" and want to start a zine called that LIKE, IMMEDIATELY.