Bulgarian women

Last nite at Cafe NELA, out back. The guy said do you know what it’s like walking on an ice-covered street holding a Bulgarian woman’s purse? I said no, I didn’t. Well, he said, it ain’t easy. Then he went to get another beer.  He was a big guy, strong, stoned, intense, funny. Went all the way from to Sofia for some chick. That’s a long way from Highland Park. She showed him all the crazy places, the crazy people.  Listened to the crazy music. Wound up holding her purse so she could cross the street in spiked heels without toppling. He slipped and slid behind her. Never dropped the purse. You don’t do that for just any woman, I said. No, he said, you do that for the experience.

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Hemingway

There’s a storm somewhere off Baja, and the air over L.A. is damp and listless and hot, and everywhere is the sound of overheated air conditioners and little else; people, pets, even the birds are still, no chatter, nothing. Words linger, form little phrases that string themselves out into long, lazy sentences full of conjunctions and commas that seem to wander nowhere in particular until stumbling onto a period. Remind me not to use such long sentences in a heat wave. When it’s humid, think like Hemingway. Short sentences. Drunk.