My hair has grown wings, and my head sports a fishnet surfer’s hat. Half price. Orange sticker sale. My eyes are particularly blue these days. The Brown people don’t speak Spanish, and the Spanish speakers’ Spanish is unrecognizable; I feel like I’ve wasted a lot of classroom hours with that one. In the university dorms, when the oceans were a thousand miles in either direction, we used to play MP3s of the waves crashing, it helped us to sleep. Now that the waves are outside my front window, the irregular pounding keeps me up at night.
This city is stuck in 1940s Los Angeles, and for some reason, I like that. It reminds me of a time and a place that I’ve never been a part of, and for some reason it feels like home. My jeans are skinny, bought at a second hand shop; let the ridicule begin. The old ones had vulgar holes. The mood is so hopeful, but for some reason the tone is so sad. Skater kids pretend this is Detroit, but they’ll never see Detroit. I should shave my beard, its at that awkward length. I am the portrait of a cliché, but I can’t imagine that this will ever be 1920s Paris. Where’s the happening spot these days anyway? Who gave those kids cameras? Where’s my sandwich? Oh, there’s my sandwich. An amazing amount of cool people bump into the patio furniture, we’re all so busy looking hip.
They play The Rolling Stones, and I admire their efforts. After the last inflammatory sentence, a steady rain began without warning; I can take a hint. The water is so cold here, and I can see Long Beach from my front porch. Let’s rent a big house at the top of the hill and drink wine at night. We’ll cast fishing lines into the gutters below to see what they send up. We’ll interlace big band with hip hop, we’ll smile wickedly at their questions. It’ll be a glorious time to be alive, you’ll see.
This coffee mixes well with rain water, and other slices of good times that make people envious.