Weekend. Watched a lot of the 1985 World Series that I recently purchased. Lots of big ass glasses (Pat Sheridan & Darrel Porter, I'm looking at you. I know that you're looking at me with those big ass glasses), big ass mustaches, tight pants, astro turf, huge wads of chew. I still can't escape Tim McCarver, even in a time machine.
Read a lot of stuff. Ted Berrigan's Collected Poems. Jack Spicer's Black Sparrow Collected Books. Hung out with John Sakkis and listened to Donna Summer. Stole off bites of Lindsey Boldt's grilled veggie burrito. Drank beers. Walked to over to Wazemia, saw Cedar Sigo, Patrick Dunnigan, Jason Morris, and Michael Carr. I think that they were talking about poetry. I think that I was talking about tennis. But that doesn't seem right. I don't know much about poetry, even less about tennis.
Back home with Lindsey and John. Drank more beers, listened to the Pogues. Tried out our stand up routines with the divine help of Milton Berle. None of the jokes were funny. And we all got boo'd off the stage.
We all went to a play rehearsal the next day. Waited half an hour for the bus. Bus came and was packed. Ran into my former co worker Georgia, said that we should go to the video game exhibit at CCA. The bus driver made everyone get off the crowded ass bus at Valencia. Waited for another crowded ass bus. It finally showed up. We were forty minutes late. We felt like punks. We play punks in the play. Even Kennedy and David Brazil are directing. Rehearsals ended. We forgot about the video games and went over to Thee Parkside. Lindsey and I split a fried chicken sandwich. The fried chicken sandwich is like, "our sandwich". Some couples have "their song". Lindsey and I have "our sandwich".
There was more. But I have to go to my good ass job. I'll tell you the rest later.
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