More Death

When I was little, I was obsessed with death. I had a calendar and when I heard in the news that someone died, like someone being bombed by the Baader-Meinhof gang, I would mark that day with a cross. Last night I cried about the child of a rock star who died. The rock star was someone I took care of when I first moved to L.A., after he had abdominoplasty. I hated his band and music and we made fun of him because he had gotten fat (hence the need for abdominoplasty). And last night I read that his little girl died from a horrible disease and I felt guilty for making fun of him ten years ago.

Perverse Perspective

A. took the last two surviving baby turtles to Echo Park Lake today, to the spot where we usually see other turtles. He said they seemed happy. I feel crushed. In fact, I feel sick to my stomach that two had to die from neglect. I almost feel as bad about the turtles as I do about the little girl who was killed on Figueroa two weeks ago. I mean, where is my perspective?

Doc on the Nod

Yesterday I saw a doctor in Beverly Hills. I had to wait for half an hour. When it was my turn, she had me sit at a little table and took notes while I answered questions such as: Have you ever had a transfusion? She kept falling asleep mid-sentence. At one point, her pen skidded across the whole page. It took 40 minutes. Then she wrote out my prescription, which took a full ten minutes. She scribbled, nodded off, scribbled again, right on top of the previous word, and then nodded off again. I would have thought she was on heroin, had she been younger and skinnier. I didn't know if I should say something. I didn't. So I just sat in silence and waited as she dosed. You think we need health reform?

PMS and the Infinite Sadness

You know you've got PMS when you start sobbing at "Puff the Magic Dragon."

Self-Loathing, again?

I'm not good at being sick. I get into fever dreams despite a temperature of 98.3. My heart beats too loundly. I sweat like I'm scared. The world seems too much and too large and too dark. I hate myself. Or rather I hate the package I'm wrapped in.

Matt Damon

Matt Damon is channeling a schlumpy Philip Seymour Hoffman. To get an Oscar?

Red Lisptick

There was a time when a woman was never too old to wear red lisptick. Now that we are used to the plump mouth, red lisptick on unenhanced lips past their due date looks dirty. I caught myself on Tuesday and looked like a clown. Of course, it isn't fair.