Happened to come across my own home page on the MySpace blog site and noticed my profile proudly announcing that I was Single, Straight and Sagittarius. Sounds more like a headline. Actually similar to one of my all time favorite from a college copywriting class: Cool. Comfy. Cardin. A headline from a retail shoe ad hawking a pair of Pierre Cardin loafers.
Somehow, "Single. Straight. Sagittarius." doesn't paint a pretty picture. Sure it's accurate as I am single. straight and yes, born within a time span which places me in some astrological domain. But it doesn't quite cut it as a headline.
I also remember from that same copywriting class an assignment where you had to write a headline for an ad about yourself. It was one of those deceivingly simple assignments where it sounds like a piece of cake, but actually much tougher to actually do. I struggled and in the end plagerised the headline from Jerry Della Femina's signature ad biz book. The layout was a large photo of my sickly self with the headline, "From the folks who gave you Pearl Harbor."
It actually was a hit with the Prof...wasn't sure if he knew it was a deliberate rip-off or not, but he gave me a decent grade.
So why is it that it's so hard to look at yourself? Is single, straight and sagittarius the best I can do?
If you ask me, I'd rather be that cool, comfy pair of Cardin loafers.
Saturday, May 01, 2004
The God of Serendipity
Do coincidences really exist?
Or do we just string together disparate incidents and occurrences and weave them into something which we can draw some meaning? Maybe we just subconciously search for items and acknowledge the occurences as concidences to rationalize to ourselves that some force is at work. Perhaps the God of Serendipity?
I'm not sure. But I will say that regardless of whether it was just a series of coincidences or whether I was unconciously directing myself, such a day happened on Thursday. It was as if the entire day was pointing to her. Someone who's no longer in my life, but within a 24 hour period, traces of her being was everywhere. It's as if she had just been there--her presence lingering--as if to say,"You just missed me."
It all started with a dream. Three dreams to be exact. In tandem. One after another. Each revolving around a strong feeling. Joy. Anger and Sorrow. And as the day progressed, it became signs of her became pronouced. I would walk into a store and I immediately in front of me would be an item which I associated with her. Not just one. But in abundance. Piled high as if to be sure I wouldn't miss it. In the bookstore it was as if the books called upon to me to retrieve them from the shelves. Much like singling out kernels from your memories. And if I by chance I obliged, I would open to a section which would contain her favorite author, passage or an unmistakenly significant rememberance.
Nevertheless, whether I was forcing these occurances, or whether all these items were merely just concidences, in the end it left me with a strong sense of elation, as if the memories were enveloping me in my journey ahead.
Or do we just string together disparate incidents and occurrences and weave them into something which we can draw some meaning? Maybe we just subconciously search for items and acknowledge the occurences as concidences to rationalize to ourselves that some force is at work. Perhaps the God of Serendipity?
I'm not sure. But I will say that regardless of whether it was just a series of coincidences or whether I was unconciously directing myself, such a day happened on Thursday. It was as if the entire day was pointing to her. Someone who's no longer in my life, but within a 24 hour period, traces of her being was everywhere. It's as if she had just been there--her presence lingering--as if to say,"You just missed me."
It all started with a dream. Three dreams to be exact. In tandem. One after another. Each revolving around a strong feeling. Joy. Anger and Sorrow. And as the day progressed, it became signs of her became pronouced. I would walk into a store and I immediately in front of me would be an item which I associated with her. Not just one. But in abundance. Piled high as if to be sure I wouldn't miss it. In the bookstore it was as if the books called upon to me to retrieve them from the shelves. Much like singling out kernels from your memories. And if I by chance I obliged, I would open to a section which would contain her favorite author, passage or an unmistakenly significant rememberance.
Nevertheless, whether I was forcing these occurances, or whether all these items were merely just concidences, in the end it left me with a strong sense of elation, as if the memories were enveloping me in my journey ahead.
Creativity and Inspiration
I had an entire week of lackluster motivation. It what I call my period. The time of the month. When the muse is away. I know it's part of my process. Procrastination. Trying to my juices up. Battery charged. All while suffering the blues. But that's not what this post is about. It's more about, "so what snaps you out?" Numerous people have written about this. I recall Mike Wallace or Morley Schaffer{sp} talking about what he endures to deal with his depression. Again---"what snaps you out?" Well the key for me is tied into inspiration which leads to creativity.
I saw something which snapped me out of it. A mirror. Well actually not a mirror, but what I saw acted as a mirror. I saw myself. And what I saw wasn't an exactly a pretty picture. But after taking a second, I realized I saw myself. It was enough to snap me out of the funk. It's amazing how when you get at the deepest point, the snap pushes the pendulum on the upswing. A reverse Wu Wei, if you will. I'm also realizing the importance of routines. There is a specific rhythm I follow. And when I follow that rhythm, I tend to minimize the ups and lows. It balances to something tolerable. A flattening of the bell curve, so to speak. Only the difference in this case is that it's best to move the curve out to the third standard deviation. Why? As in reverse logic, you don't want your emphasis within one deviation. The bell curve becomes too steep, and you're putting yourself into a heck of a climb. As Joe Sasaki would say, "the better the high, the worse the low." I suppose that's what you get when you have addictive qualities.
I saw something which snapped me out of it. A mirror. Well actually not a mirror, but what I saw acted as a mirror. I saw myself. And what I saw wasn't an exactly a pretty picture. But after taking a second, I realized I saw myself. It was enough to snap me out of the funk. It's amazing how when you get at the deepest point, the snap pushes the pendulum on the upswing. A reverse Wu Wei, if you will. I'm also realizing the importance of routines. There is a specific rhythm I follow. And when I follow that rhythm, I tend to minimize the ups and lows. It balances to something tolerable. A flattening of the bell curve, so to speak. Only the difference in this case is that it's best to move the curve out to the third standard deviation. Why? As in reverse logic, you don't want your emphasis within one deviation. The bell curve becomes too steep, and you're putting yourself into a heck of a climb. As Joe Sasaki would say, "the better the high, the worse the low." I suppose that's what you get when you have addictive qualities.
The Porn King
When I was a kid, I had a buddy name Bobby. He and I were pretty good friends. Hung out together and got in trouble together. I’ve lost touch with him over the years but heard from him out of the blue yesterday. He called me to say that he’d become the Porn King.
One day when we were 16, Bobby and I were hanging out in his room. We were flipping through Penthouse magazines and talking about how we would take on this girl or that girl and other assorted remarks hormoned 16 year olds make. Suddently Bobby gets up and starts to comment about how the photo is artistically striking and the detail of the layout...the angle, the softness of the lens and how the photographer is truely capturing the essence of sexuality. He says he could do this. Only better. He can turn nudity into pure artistic expression. "It's not exploitation," he proclaimed, referring to the accusations hurled by the feminist groups of that era, "It's's art." Bobby maintained that he could go beyond Guccione and push porn into a pure art form. “I can be the King of Porn," he declared.
I’m not following this at all. All I know is I have a “woody” the size of Manhattan, and my buddy’s gone soft in the head. Excessive masturbating will do that to you I tell him. He grabs his Polaroid and tells me he’ll show me what he means. “Pose," he directs.
“What?”
“Pose, you asshole, I’ll show you what I mean”
To pacify him, I lay back and strike an exaggerated pose. He doesn't click the shutter and instead makes some lewd comments about what a waste of film it would be or something to that effect.
After that day, Bobby starts snapping. Pictures. Lots of pictures. He took pictures of girls extensively. He couldn’t get them to pose nude obviously so he settled for just rolls and rolls of girls striking a pose. Some of them were actually pretty good. Sexy even. Like the ones in fashion magazines.
Bobby was pretty serious about this. He pursued photography in college and apparently started hanging out with some noteworthy professionals in the fashion photography world. Not quite the roadmap to become a “Porn King”, but not a bad start for a photography career.
One day he's asked to do a freelance job for some news magazine. Apparently it involves some horrendous murder scene and victim photos and does a great job. So good he gets an offer to join the journalist on a few other assignments. After a few years, he’s a pretty sought after photojournalist. His trademark is his ability to capture and communicate the intensity of the moment. His fashion photography days are over. I saw him once during those days and asked him about the “Porn King” pursuit. We have a good laugh about it.
Years go by and I hear from him from time to time. He's doing well and I see his bylines in the news magazines. He talks passionately about journalism and the need to expose the true story and all that other stuff people in his trade lavish endlessly about. It was during one of those times that we somehow got onto the subject of the Vietnam War and one particularly vivid childhood memory.
We were probably eight years old and living in Japan at the time. Our fathers were in Government Service and our parents used to take us to the Officer’s Club at a large Army Hospital base called Kishine. We’d see the Officers there having a great time as if nothing was going on in the world. However, it was quite a different scene at the movie theatre across the street. There, we saw and sat among the casualties of war. Most of the guys were in their early twenties and hospital patients who were mobile enough to make it to the theatre. They were in wheel chairs or in crutches and all bandaged up. It was a ghastly site.
It was about that time when a particular issue of “MAD MAGAZINE” featured a 10 or 12 page pictorial about the Vietnam War. One particular photo was forever burnt in our memory. The photo showed heaps and heaps of corpses--similar to a scene from the movie, “The Killing Fields.” Under the photo was the caption, “War Is Hell.” It’s something we didn't expect from a comic book. It was beyond satire and it was the God’s honest truth. It still stirs a deep emotional feeling in me to this day.
So here we are in our mid-Thirties talking about this. Bobby’s pretty emotional as he explains to me how he tries to tell the “story” with his photography and how he has to “push” sometimes to get to the truth for the audience. I admired his passion and was proud for what he believed in.
It’s about ten years later. I get a call from Bobby. He’s very sullen and tells me how he’s in deep shit. How he’s done something beyond what he ever thought he would do. Seems he was after a fairly large story in the Middle East. It’s the summer of 2003 and the war between the United States and Iraq is still going on. The big search for Saddam Hussein is being reported nightly. Apparently Bobby’s crew is after some big story about the oppression that was rampant during Hussein’s regime. I’m still not clear about what happened but in the middle of reporting this story, Bobby just broke down. I guess he suffered some type of breakdown. It was a combination of fatigue, stress and seeing human suffering day in and day out. I guess it just fell apart for him one day when he gathered a group of teenage girls who lived in a village which suffered horrendous retribution from Hussein’s fleeing army which accused them of being pro-American. Needless to say, reports of rape and execution were a major part of the story.
Bobby was on the phone rambling aimlessly about how his team sought this opportunity to make a centerpiece story. They prodded and cajoled the kids to talk about what happened in detail, took extensive footage of the corpses, the family and close ups of the townsfolk.
Bobby’s commented how they were so engrossed in making this their Pulitzer piece, they forgot about the actual suffering experienced by the villagers. “You know, they weren’t even crying or sobbing. They were just plain numb. You could have told them to do anything. It only hit us when we were doing the editing. Here they were, positioned perfectly in the shot. The reportage was right on. We built the emotion into the story and it was just absolutely impacting. But you know what? We forgot all about the emotions of the victim. It was all about us trying to score with the story. You know, exploiting the circumstances. Here I am back in the US and they're still there. I started to think about about those young solders in Camp Kishine and all the residual effects of the Vietnam War we saw when we were kids. It’s still happening. Only now, I'm the one who’s taking advantage of the situation. I suppose, I’ve become, in some way, the King of Porn.
One day when we were 16, Bobby and I were hanging out in his room. We were flipping through Penthouse magazines and talking about how we would take on this girl or that girl and other assorted remarks hormoned 16 year olds make. Suddently Bobby gets up and starts to comment about how the photo is artistically striking and the detail of the layout...the angle, the softness of the lens and how the photographer is truely capturing the essence of sexuality. He says he could do this. Only better. He can turn nudity into pure artistic expression. "It's not exploitation," he proclaimed, referring to the accusations hurled by the feminist groups of that era, "It's's art." Bobby maintained that he could go beyond Guccione and push porn into a pure art form. “I can be the King of Porn," he declared.
I’m not following this at all. All I know is I have a “woody” the size of Manhattan, and my buddy’s gone soft in the head. Excessive masturbating will do that to you I tell him. He grabs his Polaroid and tells me he’ll show me what he means. “Pose," he directs.
“What?”
“Pose, you asshole, I’ll show you what I mean”
To pacify him, I lay back and strike an exaggerated pose. He doesn't click the shutter and instead makes some lewd comments about what a waste of film it would be or something to that effect.
After that day, Bobby starts snapping. Pictures. Lots of pictures. He took pictures of girls extensively. He couldn’t get them to pose nude obviously so he settled for just rolls and rolls of girls striking a pose. Some of them were actually pretty good. Sexy even. Like the ones in fashion magazines.
Bobby was pretty serious about this. He pursued photography in college and apparently started hanging out with some noteworthy professionals in the fashion photography world. Not quite the roadmap to become a “Porn King”, but not a bad start for a photography career.
One day he's asked to do a freelance job for some news magazine. Apparently it involves some horrendous murder scene and victim photos and does a great job. So good he gets an offer to join the journalist on a few other assignments. After a few years, he’s a pretty sought after photojournalist. His trademark is his ability to capture and communicate the intensity of the moment. His fashion photography days are over. I saw him once during those days and asked him about the “Porn King” pursuit. We have a good laugh about it.
Years go by and I hear from him from time to time. He's doing well and I see his bylines in the news magazines. He talks passionately about journalism and the need to expose the true story and all that other stuff people in his trade lavish endlessly about. It was during one of those times that we somehow got onto the subject of the Vietnam War and one particularly vivid childhood memory.
We were probably eight years old and living in Japan at the time. Our fathers were in Government Service and our parents used to take us to the Officer’s Club at a large Army Hospital base called Kishine. We’d see the Officers there having a great time as if nothing was going on in the world. However, it was quite a different scene at the movie theatre across the street. There, we saw and sat among the casualties of war. Most of the guys were in their early twenties and hospital patients who were mobile enough to make it to the theatre. They were in wheel chairs or in crutches and all bandaged up. It was a ghastly site.
It was about that time when a particular issue of “MAD MAGAZINE” featured a 10 or 12 page pictorial about the Vietnam War. One particular photo was forever burnt in our memory. The photo showed heaps and heaps of corpses--similar to a scene from the movie, “The Killing Fields.” Under the photo was the caption, “War Is Hell.” It’s something we didn't expect from a comic book. It was beyond satire and it was the God’s honest truth. It still stirs a deep emotional feeling in me to this day.
So here we are in our mid-Thirties talking about this. Bobby’s pretty emotional as he explains to me how he tries to tell the “story” with his photography and how he has to “push” sometimes to get to the truth for the audience. I admired his passion and was proud for what he believed in.
It’s about ten years later. I get a call from Bobby. He’s very sullen and tells me how he’s in deep shit. How he’s done something beyond what he ever thought he would do. Seems he was after a fairly large story in the Middle East. It’s the summer of 2003 and the war between the United States and Iraq is still going on. The big search for Saddam Hussein is being reported nightly. Apparently Bobby’s crew is after some big story about the oppression that was rampant during Hussein’s regime. I’m still not clear about what happened but in the middle of reporting this story, Bobby just broke down. I guess he suffered some type of breakdown. It was a combination of fatigue, stress and seeing human suffering day in and day out. I guess it just fell apart for him one day when he gathered a group of teenage girls who lived in a village which suffered horrendous retribution from Hussein’s fleeing army which accused them of being pro-American. Needless to say, reports of rape and execution were a major part of the story.
Bobby was on the phone rambling aimlessly about how his team sought this opportunity to make a centerpiece story. They prodded and cajoled the kids to talk about what happened in detail, took extensive footage of the corpses, the family and close ups of the townsfolk.
Bobby’s commented how they were so engrossed in making this their Pulitzer piece, they forgot about the actual suffering experienced by the villagers. “You know, they weren’t even crying or sobbing. They were just plain numb. You could have told them to do anything. It only hit us when we were doing the editing. Here they were, positioned perfectly in the shot. The reportage was right on. We built the emotion into the story and it was just absolutely impacting. But you know what? We forgot all about the emotions of the victim. It was all about us trying to score with the story. You know, exploiting the circumstances. Here I am back in the US and they're still there. I started to think about about those young solders in Camp Kishine and all the residual effects of the Vietnam War we saw when we were kids. It’s still happening. Only now, I'm the one who’s taking advantage of the situation. I suppose, I’ve become, in some way, the King of Porn.
Mona, Queen of San Fernando
I’m curious. Well, not of just one or anything in particular, but of things in general. I’m curious as to why jets fly. I mean I kinda understand, but really I don’t. I’m curious about yeast. How does it really work? And how did someone really discover or understand how live cultured yeast will make your bread fluffy and light?
I’m also curious about women. What are they and how do they work? I mean they just defy logic and any sane reasonable explanation. Oh, in case you’re wondering what specifically I’m referring to about lacking a reasonable explanation? Everything. Let’s start from there first.
I understand dogs, but not cats. I’m curious as to why you can’t take cats out for a walk. Do we really know for a fact that they don’t enjoy a good walk? I mean tigers, lions, leopards and cheetahs roam around. Why not the household cat? Why is it that we are so sure that the only animal in the world that enjoys a stroll is a dog? Well, I take it back. Humans also enjoy walks. They only difference is we don’t have to curb Humans. Well for the most part.
Which brings us up to a story of someone I know. Ok you probably figured there was a story here somewhere. Let’s call her Mona. Mona…the Queen of San Fernando.
I met Mona over a dozen years ago. I say “more than a dozen” as I’m not sure when you’ll be reading this. Anyway, that’s got nothing to do with the story. Mona had a problem with the bathroom. For some reason, she couldn’t bear herself to use one. No, it’s not what you’re thinking; she wasn’t raised in the wild. She had a problem with using a public restroom as she thought it was just a filthy, germ-infested shithole (no pun intended) for the most part. And in general she was right. So she would go out of her way to use a public restroom. There were exceptions. Institutions, which would logically have sanitary facilities—such as hotels, nice restaurants and others, which fit in this category, were exceptions. It was the gas stations, the fast food joints and others of questionable hygiene, which were out of the question.
There were times when we were meandering about town when she would announce that she would have to go home, as she needed to use the bathroom. Not a problem when you’re only a couple of miles from home. But 10 to 15 miles? Enroute to an outing? Fascinating.
So going back to the curbing humans. There has been a few times…ok, more than a “few” times as it’s in the double digit realm now…where I’ve had to pull over in a secluded street or alley so she could, well, consummate her need. You know, pee.
Out in the open. In the raw. Back to nature. Commando. Yep, pull down the panties and let ‘er rip, kind of situation. Why there was that one time where we were on an incline where the car was tipped towards the driver’s side and as Mona was launching her version of Niagara Falls, I slowly witnessed the gradual formation of tributaries gushing out from under my car out into the wild open avenue.
Now, I have to say that I have never experienced her need to go number two (you know the “big” need) in an alley. This I think would be very interesting and would open a new set of questions to whet my appetite of curiosity. One of which would be, just who would be responsible for curbing Mona?
I’m also curious about women. What are they and how do they work? I mean they just defy logic and any sane reasonable explanation. Oh, in case you’re wondering what specifically I’m referring to about lacking a reasonable explanation? Everything. Let’s start from there first.
I understand dogs, but not cats. I’m curious as to why you can’t take cats out for a walk. Do we really know for a fact that they don’t enjoy a good walk? I mean tigers, lions, leopards and cheetahs roam around. Why not the household cat? Why is it that we are so sure that the only animal in the world that enjoys a stroll is a dog? Well, I take it back. Humans also enjoy walks. They only difference is we don’t have to curb Humans. Well for the most part.
Which brings us up to a story of someone I know. Ok you probably figured there was a story here somewhere. Let’s call her Mona. Mona…the Queen of San Fernando.
I met Mona over a dozen years ago. I say “more than a dozen” as I’m not sure when you’ll be reading this. Anyway, that’s got nothing to do with the story. Mona had a problem with the bathroom. For some reason, she couldn’t bear herself to use one. No, it’s not what you’re thinking; she wasn’t raised in the wild. She had a problem with using a public restroom as she thought it was just a filthy, germ-infested shithole (no pun intended) for the most part. And in general she was right. So she would go out of her way to use a public restroom. There were exceptions. Institutions, which would logically have sanitary facilities—such as hotels, nice restaurants and others, which fit in this category, were exceptions. It was the gas stations, the fast food joints and others of questionable hygiene, which were out of the question.
There were times when we were meandering about town when she would announce that she would have to go home, as she needed to use the bathroom. Not a problem when you’re only a couple of miles from home. But 10 to 15 miles? Enroute to an outing? Fascinating.
So going back to the curbing humans. There has been a few times…ok, more than a “few” times as it’s in the double digit realm now…where I’ve had to pull over in a secluded street or alley so she could, well, consummate her need. You know, pee.
Out in the open. In the raw. Back to nature. Commando. Yep, pull down the panties and let ‘er rip, kind of situation. Why there was that one time where we were on an incline where the car was tipped towards the driver’s side and as Mona was launching her version of Niagara Falls, I slowly witnessed the gradual formation of tributaries gushing out from under my car out into the wild open avenue.
Now, I have to say that I have never experienced her need to go number two (you know the “big” need) in an alley. This I think would be very interesting and would open a new set of questions to whet my appetite of curiosity. One of which would be, just who would be responsible for curbing Mona?
The Stargazer and Pravda
Weary from the night's drinking, Tadanobu woke up
startled. The director, you see, had proceeded to
negotiate the interview. "We had always wished to work
together, Tadanobu, Miieke and myself."
"We kept running into each other at these festivals,"
he explained in that nasal Thai twang, " And we always
said we should do a film together." He contemplates,
"You see people like us don't care if the work is good
or not, the script meaningful or not. We just want to
work together."
So what is the significance of the Stargazer, I ask.
"It's his signature" responds Miike. "Something about
his past. A girl. A wife. A mother. Not sure. Besides.
If he's not telling, why ask?"
So what about the writer I ask.
"Him? Well, his mother's a famous journalist. Father a
Dutch producer. I suppose it's an inside joke naming
him Pravada...well, actually, Pravda. The truth."
He adds, "If you ask me, it's a great name for a dog."
startled. The director, you see, had proceeded to
negotiate the interview. "We had always wished to work
together, Tadanobu, Miieke and myself."
"We kept running into each other at these festivals,"
he explained in that nasal Thai twang, " And we always
said we should do a film together." He contemplates,
"You see people like us don't care if the work is good
or not, the script meaningful or not. We just want to
work together."
So what is the significance of the Stargazer, I ask.
"It's his signature" responds Miike. "Something about
his past. A girl. A wife. A mother. Not sure. Besides.
If he's not telling, why ask?"
So what about the writer I ask.
"Him? Well, his mother's a famous journalist. Father a
Dutch producer. I suppose it's an inside joke naming
him Pravada...well, actually, Pravda. The truth."
He adds, "If you ask me, it's a great name for a dog."
Are You Going With Me
I felt inspired to write. It started as I was watching the previews in the movie theatre. There was a bit of dialogue from the movie "Crash" which rang true with me. A comment about Los Angeles...something about how in any other city of millions of people, say New York, you bump, rub and brush against people. But in Los Angeles--a city of 12 million--you hardly if ever brush against another person. This longing for human contact, the movie hypothesizes--the pushing, shoving, the navigating around the waddling tourists--is experienced through cars, perhaps through crashing into one another. A rather impacting statement.
As I'm thinking about this, I drive through the empty Sunday streets of Los Angeles. There's patches of traffic within the vicinity of the malls and popular hang outs, but once past, the streets are empty. Wilshire. As well as La Cienega. These are just some of the streets that I love. Similar to when I used to criss cross through the Sunday streets of New York, there is a familiarity between the two cities. Almost identical. And in both cases, it's an experience I've never really shared with another person. It seems to be a part of me meant only for me.
While driving I happen to play a CD that included a track from Metheny's Off Ramp album, "Are You Going With Me". I was about to skip the track but decided otherwise. For some reason it felt right for today. Listening to the melancholy but striking melody brought memories of my days in Cleveland--which is another long forgotten chapter in itself. I recall listening to that song over and over with drink in hand in that apartment. Sixteen stories high. Feelings which I had buried somewhere faraway emerged quietly as I mused how 20 years later my life had somehow reverted as I roamed the empty streets of Los Angeles. I suddenly had this intense desire to crash.
As I'm thinking about this, I drive through the empty Sunday streets of Los Angeles. There's patches of traffic within the vicinity of the malls and popular hang outs, but once past, the streets are empty. Wilshire. As well as La Cienega. These are just some of the streets that I love. Similar to when I used to criss cross through the Sunday streets of New York, there is a familiarity between the two cities. Almost identical. And in both cases, it's an experience I've never really shared with another person. It seems to be a part of me meant only for me.
While driving I happen to play a CD that included a track from Metheny's Off Ramp album, "Are You Going With Me". I was about to skip the track but decided otherwise. For some reason it felt right for today. Listening to the melancholy but striking melody brought memories of my days in Cleveland--which is another long forgotten chapter in itself. I recall listening to that song over and over with drink in hand in that apartment. Sixteen stories high. Feelings which I had buried somewhere faraway emerged quietly as I mused how 20 years later my life had somehow reverted as I roamed the empty streets of Los Angeles. I suddenly had this intense desire to crash.
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