So today a lady friend sends me an article about peeing in the sink and why it’s the green thing to do. I bet you never knew you were helping the environment when you piss in the sink, she texted. But I don’t piss in the sink, I replied. Sure you do, she said, you told me about it. But I do not piss in the sink, I said. Why not, she said, you’re tall enough.
All my life people have assumed I piss in the sink. Female people, anyway. With male people it’s never come up. But inevitably at some point, usually at work, a lady would ask me about peeing in the sink. I would say I don’t pee in the sink. Sure, she’d say.
The internet is really ruining the art of storytelling. The fact that you can now google any facts you want to know means you no longer need to have faith in a story teller’s narrative. A story teller is constantly being corrected and updated on the facts of his story. All the pretty narrative, the carefully woven lattice of plot and descriptions and observations, it comes apart under a deluge of facts that really have nothing to do with the story at all. I have pulled so many pieces this way. You can’t write non-fiction based on a lie. Story telling gets blown away in the wind, and all we’re left with is factoids.
Back about 1981 a woman with a fraffully English accent left a message on our answering machine saying Hello, this is Angie and told us what was happening at the Brave Dog that weekend. The Brave Dog was a crazily hip and completely illegal nightspot for weirdos in Little Tokyo. It’s a subway station now. Who’s Angie? my wife asked. Somebody said it was Angie Bowie. David Bowie’s ex? Calling us? For a second I thought we’d made it. She must be calling everybody on the Brave Dog list, my wife said. Maybe it’s her job. I pictured David Bowie’s ex in some weird outfit and crazy make up and huge platinum hair, pressing all these 213 numbers with endless fingernails. I could almost feel the ennui. She used to hang with the Beatles. Now she was calling us. It was too ridiculous. It couldn’t possibly be Angie Bowie. It must be some other Angie. That was forty years ago almost. I wouldn’t be so easily thrilled now anyway. Too long in Hollywood. This town is full of exes. But I’ve always wondered who that Angie was, not that I thought about it much. But I’m retired now, and have more time to think.
I don’t follow any fucking rules. I just make use of the capabilities English has built into it, and has had long before grammarians existed. If we can verb and noun nouns and verbs, it’s silly not to. I just assume everything my English teachers taught me was wrong and have a ball writing. Otherwise I don’t really give a damn about what people think. If they can read it and understand it, it’s English. If they don’t like it they can read something else. The world is full of words, there’s plenty for everybody.
I remember at the house on Edgecliffe in the 80’s we had hundreds and hundreds of albums but I was so punk rock they were in no order whatsoever. Anarchy, I said. Sometimes if I was tired of hearing the same record every week—we were having parties almost weekly, loud obnoxious drunken punk rock parties that went on till dawn—I’d hide the record way in the back somewhere. Only the most determined digger—The Panther was the best—would flip through hundreds of LPs to find Sticky Fingers. Most would just pick something that looked cool and it might be some frenzied Yugoslavian punk rock or squealing Swiss saxophones or bad Lee Michaels. Then there’d be a drunken screech of the tone arm across once perfect vinyl, a pregnant few seconds, and Brown Sugar again.
We moved to Hollywood forty years ago this very month and have lived in Hollywood and Silver Lake since then. And in that long span of decades we’ve only watched the Oscars once, when we were invited to a viewing party, which was kind of a new thing thirty years ago. But we hadn’t seen any of the movies or recognized almost any of the stars and couldn’t give a flying fuck about what they were wearing and found ourselves with absolutely nothing to say. We were just staggeringly bored. In fact it remains the dullest party I can ever remember. An hour into the festivities we made some lame excuse and split early to go see some loud music in a no doubt dank and dark club. That party was our one brush with show biz fandom. That was our whiff of the Day of the Locust.
So I suppose there’s more than a little irony in us living in a place for thirty years now that was built in 1931 and has probably been populated by a whole series of people who worked in the Industry. Silverlake after all was a movie studio suburb, that’s why it’s here. Yet Fyl and I are in our own universe and show business in another, and neither we nor show biz are even aware the other exists. I even worked for a studio for 15 years and somehow maintained my abject ignorance of all things currently film related. I really don’t know how we’ve managed it, I mean it’s not deliberate, we’re not trying to make a point or be, ya know, different. We live surrounded by the film industry. Yet somehow year after year we’re blissfully ignorant of its biggest day, like a pair of atheists in Vatican City not realizing it’s Easter Sunday.
Back around 1980 and someone puts on the Cars or the B-52s or Joe Jackson and you bellow I don’t wanna listen to this shit, put on something real and they know exactly what you mean, though it’s almost impossible to explain what you meant to people now, and you might not even know anymore yourself. But sometimes, when the circumstances are just right, it comes welling up out of nowhere, that feeling, and suddenly you’re an asshole again, cackling at shit going wrong and heckling the musicians like some crazed geezer uncle the kids aren’t sure what to do with.
Not that I’ve ever done this.