READ ME ... yeah, right. Right?

I'm sick of everyone else having on-line diaries. I want one too.

What is this all about? Maybe you should read the READ ME READ ME.

june 22, 1996: back and shit.

I promise I will start answering your annoying questions again soon.

It is just that I was gone for almost a week, and everyone wants to know if I like fell off the side of the earth for a while or something.

The answer is, Well, kinda.

I was in L.A. And I did a zillion things. It was awesome. Being back sucks. This city is fucking freezing and filled with snooty people. People in L.A. might be shallow, but at least they are nice. In LA, if you accidentally bump into a dog that a person is walking, they usually say something like, "Oh, I am so sorry my dog is in your way." In San Francisco, it is more to the tune of, "Get the fuck out my my dog's way, you non-boycotter of products made with animal testing!."

Of course, although the people were nice, very good looking, and tons of fun, being in L.A. was not all wine and flowers.

When I arrived, I was like, "Oh, shit." Instantly, pieces started falling off my car -- the wind vent that lies underneath; the right hand mirror -- and some losers scratch my front windowpane.

Welcome to L.A.!

And everyone is so fucking skinny in L.A. Instantly I felt fat. At least there are doctors there who will sell prescriptions to amphetamine diet pills for a mere $100 a month. Prescription uppers to keep the L.A. ladies skinny and UP. You gotta love it. I sure as hell did.

And of course, I became instantly very aware of my fingernails. I went in to get acrylics and a French manicure. All the women there were skinny and on diet pill uppers. It is fun to hang out with good looking smiley skinny people, let me tell you. White lycra stretch pants never go out of style in LA, especially among the manicure set.

In fact, the whole week really was pretty chill. The weather was fucking gorgeous. I visited my old hood in Venice. I learned about script writing. I went to the Theater -- the only true multimedia. I got kinda tan. I drank beer at my old neighborhood hang-out, the Circle Bar. I wrote shit.

I got to hang out with fun boys. It felt like being Wendy Darling with the Lost Boys in Never Never Land. I saw cool shit and got to toy with a DJ turntable when no one was looking.

I think that what was best of all was spending time with my friend Colette, who has been my close friend for over 25 years. Hanging out with someone like her who really knows me makes me pissed that I waste my time hanging out with people who totally don't know me at all and are shallow enough to judge me negatively nonetheless. Colette is really spectacular. She lives a la Kato Kaelin in the guest house of Alfred Molina and his wife, who is a fabulous actress and novelist.

Colette wrote me a dope poem during the ten minutes that I was not guarding my powerbook. Read it.

It was also the summer solstice yesterday -- the longest night of the year, a night of wishing, peak of power, light, and clarity. For wiping yourself clean of imaginary fears. Although I spent the winter solstice, what feels like a lifetime alone, alone and at home in my former apartment in Houston writing this, this summer solstice I found myself cruising up highway 5, watching the sky get lighter, LA get farther behind me, and San Francisco get closer yet up ahead. The wicca books say that the summer solstice is a good time to jump over a bonfire. Driving up that long stretch of interstate struck me as ritual-appropriate (if I cared about ritual, that is). I felt fortunate that I am finally starting to get do some things I believe in, even though I am not making a load of dough. Fuck, I will take doing over wishing any day.

I should have focused on making more wishes for the future, however. For example, I should have wished for not getting a speeding ticket while cruising up highway 5 for once. Ah, well.

I must confess, being back kinda sucks. My computer is still fucked up; my apartment is still dusty and covered with rabbit hair; people are still snooty; and it is fucking freezing out.

But you know, screw that. I feel PARAURETHRAL today.





or, if you must, back to Rebecca's Revenge

Copyright 1996 Rebecca Eisenberg All rights reserved.