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Liv Tyler says, "I was born to play the role of Bettie Page."
Raybear says, "It's cute you think that."
Don't get me wrong -- Liv Tyler has sort of won me over as an interesting actor and beauty. But to say she was born to play the role, well, that's a bit lofty.
Last night I dozed on the couch waiting for the Buffy rerun to come on. Then when it did, despite Anya looking all good in her tight jeans and see-through hippie shirt, I opted instead for a walk around the neighborhood.
The weather was gorgeous though still chilly. But it tasted and smelled different -- it was the cold of spring, with a certain dampness and sweetness, rather than then dry, smoky cold of fall and winter. I don't even like spring that much, but last night it made me happy.
I love my neighborhood on monday and tuesday nights because it's mostly local folks and less crowded, and no wannabe kids from the suburbs or sloshed slumming adults or part-time queers. Sure my neighbors are still mostly yuppie, but I still like that they came to the neighborhood for a purpose that didn't included gentrification (which already happened years and years ago). And besides, when else in my life will I be able to live in a place like this? I'm trying to enjoy my limited time here.
I spent most of my wandering book-shopping. Or book-looking, since I didn't buy much. I forgot how relaxing it is to stand in a store and just run my eyes and fingers over every title, occasionally pulling them out to look at the cover and read about the author. I rarely read the description of the book thoroughly, since they're often grossly inaccurate. I'm more interested in what other books the writer did or what blurbs people have written. Or the ultimate test which is to open to any page and start reading. If I'm compelled to keep going when the paragraph moves to the next page, it's a good sign.
I found a place that sold cigarettes cheaply and I blew smoke into the windows of the store-front gyms that I passed. I give clueless looks to trolling bookstore patrons wanting to make me their chicken. I locked eyes with other young guys as we passed each other on the sidewalk, but I would never turn to see if they looked back -- I had no interest in taking it to that next level. I only wanted the brief moment of facing each other.
And all along I talked to myself. Not in a the manic monologue of trying to "figure things out" or overprocessing every moment of my life from the past few days. But just talking and entertaining myself.
I found the book I wanted and turned to home. I walked myself to the door and the date was over.
Raybear says, "It's cute you think that."
Don't get me wrong -- Liv Tyler has sort of won me over as an interesting actor and beauty. But to say she was born to play the role, well, that's a bit lofty.
Last night I dozed on the couch waiting for the Buffy rerun to come on. Then when it did, despite Anya looking all good in her tight jeans and see-through hippie shirt, I opted instead for a walk around the neighborhood.
The weather was gorgeous though still chilly. But it tasted and smelled different -- it was the cold of spring, with a certain dampness and sweetness, rather than then dry, smoky cold of fall and winter. I don't even like spring that much, but last night it made me happy.
I love my neighborhood on monday and tuesday nights because it's mostly local folks and less crowded, and no wannabe kids from the suburbs or sloshed slumming adults or part-time queers. Sure my neighbors are still mostly yuppie, but I still like that they came to the neighborhood for a purpose that didn't included gentrification (which already happened years and years ago). And besides, when else in my life will I be able to live in a place like this? I'm trying to enjoy my limited time here.
I spent most of my wandering book-shopping. Or book-looking, since I didn't buy much. I forgot how relaxing it is to stand in a store and just run my eyes and fingers over every title, occasionally pulling them out to look at the cover and read about the author. I rarely read the description of the book thoroughly, since they're often grossly inaccurate. I'm more interested in what other books the writer did or what blurbs people have written. Or the ultimate test which is to open to any page and start reading. If I'm compelled to keep going when the paragraph moves to the next page, it's a good sign.
I found a place that sold cigarettes cheaply and I blew smoke into the windows of the store-front gyms that I passed. I give clueless looks to trolling bookstore patrons wanting to make me their chicken. I locked eyes with other young guys as we passed each other on the sidewalk, but I would never turn to see if they looked back -- I had no interest in taking it to that next level. I only wanted the brief moment of facing each other.
And all along I talked to myself. Not in a the manic monologue of trying to "figure things out" or overprocessing every moment of my life from the past few days. But just talking and entertaining myself.
I found the book I wanted and turned to home. I walked myself to the door and the date was over.
