Please don't go crazy, if I tell you the truth...Dr. Jekyll is wrestling Hyde for my pride.
Stories from the Bar tour, we're at T minus 12 now.
On Richard Marx. He's just a regular soft rock juggernaut. This week's People tells me that Richard Marx co-wrote Luther Vandross's "Dance With My Father." Oddly, he also wrote N Sync's "This I Promise You." When I think of Richard's rockin' early 90's mullet, I do throw up a little, but these are both songs I have absolutely no problem with. Realistically, these songs are just different versions of "Right Here Waiting," and I'm sure the sheet music would look like the same notes in different permutations.
On Saint-Saens. Whenever I think of my "happy place," they are playing "The Swan" from the Carnival of the Animals.
On Tamara Mellon. Thanks to this month's Vanity Fair, I can read about Martha and Jimmy Choos. Sorry she married such a cokehead, but man, do the shoes rock, and is she skinny and posh. So, I have to correct myself, and to those I might have misinformed. Jimmy Choo is indeed a British company and brand, but the original dude was a Malaysian cobbler with a small shop on London's East End. It's legit, as good as Manolo's.
On the Big Blue Bus. There was a trannie on board today. No feather boas or lucite heels, but unmistakably, a trannie. He/she looked at me as the accelerating bus flung me into a nearby seat, as I hoped inertia would still me and my big backpack. I pretended to focus on my iPod, but I could see this trannie's eyes fixed on me. And out of my peripheral vision I could see the smoothness and roundness of his/her face from cheek and chin implants, the shaved eyebrows, the unnatural fibers of his/her hair extensions, the angular jaw. I saw the jutting out of that part of his/her hands, between his/her inner wrist and thumbs, and I saw the squarishness of his/her shoulders and scapula. He/she had tattoos in parts where flesh was exposed. I saw him/her opening her mouth to speak to me, so I politely paused my iPod.
"That looks gooood," he/she said, pointing to my Peet's Iced Mocha.
It was wrapped with a sleeve and I covered the bottom of my drink with a napkin so that it wouldn't moisten my hand. I didn't know how he/she knew what the hell it was, much less that it was appetizing, since it was all covered up. "Mm, yeah? I got it at Peet's." I pointed carelessly into the air, sort of motioning east, north, since there were two in Westwood anyway.
"Oh, I looove it, in the mornings I get an iced one, and then in the afternoon I get a caramel one," he/she purred.
"Um, yes." The bus rattled a bit, moving past Santa Monica Boulevard. "I just have the one, I can't handle all that caffeine." My eyes raked the lumpiness of his/her collagen-infused face, trying to puzzle out how an eyelift would create that kind of cat-like effect.
He/she smiled at me. Kindly. Sort of as if he/she were looking for something else to talk about. I sort of raised my eyebrows, bit my lip, and deliberately unpaused the iPod.
posted by Lucy Sloan @ 12:07 AM
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