Waiting, Devotion, and things of that nature

I never said I was a reliable narrator, just a sensitive, romantic one.

Last year, my mom had an appointment in Fresno with USCIS. On the radio, the DJ talked about people petitioning for the production of a Drunk Driver Barbie. I couldn't make out the words pass Drunk Driver Barbie. We passed by a house built along the freeway, presumably for the agricultural living. The house was painted a pretty faint peach color similar to the cover of the book I planned to start reading once I could muster the courage to do so. It's hard to read when I've made it my goal to pick up books that make me stop after a sentence and make me question how I've lived my life thus far, but I still try. I imagined that the house was that creamy muted salmon color because the wife found it lovely and I enjoyed picturing the idea of the poor, stupid-in-love husband who agreed.. with hearts in his eyes, pressing the color onto the rocky exterior, surrounded by Central California's dreary, desolate weariness. Along the way, I felt sick to my stomach so my mom stopped by an Office Depot and I vomited. I felt bad for going in just to use the restroom so I stared at the calculator section and pretended to take interest in a teal TI-84.

I could tell my mom was nervous throughout the interview because I saw her sat with her hands clasped together, twiddling her thumbs around each other. I always thought that was a dated habit of hers. It made me think of the 80s and of demure, playful movements and of colors like that pretty in pink house facing the highway. Like something a John Waters character would be doing in the middle of some mundane, almost irritable bullshit like the interview we were sitting through at that moment. 

Earlier that month, I started reading Aris Janigan's Waiting for Lipchitz at Chateau Marmont and it pressed on my skull in a way that reminded me why I have to force myself to read through books even when my mind is elsewhere. I've always thought of Los Angeles as something integral to who I am or at least what I think I am. The book, to me, reminded me that there's haunting emptiness and binding beauty to be found everywhere, even Fresno. It was funny to me that the book I was reading was about a down-and-out Hollywood screenwriter divorcing from opulence and the overall poking at the California Dream was very fitting for where I was in that moment. 

.·:*¨¨*𝓁𝑜𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔...*¨¨*:·.

April 8, 2023 

The Saturday before Easter, there was nothing to do. My family and I ended up in Hollywood, a place I loathe. I walked to Amoeba on my own. Inside, I weaved through goths and punks (always the nicest) and white people skimming the hip-hop section looking for Mm..Food (terrifying). No one said “excuse me” except me. I didn’t mind. I had soundproof headphones on and had forgotten to take my medication that morning, so the whole day already felt like an illusion.

I picked up King Krule’s 6 Feet Beneath the Moon and Chet Baker Sings. A Chet Baker record isn’t exactly rare and I could’ve gotten it months ago, but I wanted to stumble into it in person. King Krule used to be hell to find. I remember going to Supervinyl in LA and to Korea Disco, Gimbab Records, and SOUNDS GOOD STORE in Seoul, and even some random shop in the humidity of Toronto’s summer, asking forlorn men behind the counter if they had any trace of it. It was always confusion or: “No, we can order it.” I’ve always preferred running into things by chance because I’ve convinced myself that it means they were meant to be. I’m not really patient, but for vinyl I am. I found myself tête-à-tête with King Krule in a sea of people in the wasteland of Hollywood, so of course it course it followed me home.

.·:*¨¨*𝓁𝑜𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔...*¨¨*:·.

One of my parents' best friends, and one of mine by association, recently told us he's been diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer and had been at Cedars-Sinai for a couple of months now. I found out while I was at work and I felt sick. 

I've known him nearly all my life. A snarky gay man who used to work at a restaurant down Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks with my mom and his chain-smoking gay bartending roommate named Saul. We don't even know where Saul went, but we're all sure he's dead now due to his penchant for cocaine and liquor. And where does that leave the rest of us? I don't like grief because it makes my chest hurt in a way that feels like I should have been the one to get taken away instead. I don't know what to do except picture my younger self being called beautiful and pretty by him and him rightfully bad-mouthing my dad in the same breath every time we all hung out. A real, true LA asshole if I've ever seen one. 

What more do I want than that feeling of laying in his apartment with him and my parents the day after Christmas and watching Adam Sandler in Click and feeling that same type of chest pain from watching him lay in the rain as he slowly died after so many tries to do-over his life. We used to go to BBQ Unlimited in the Valley and eat ribs and talk shit. Then we'd go hang out at his apartment long into the night. I used to love his bathroom. He's always been fond of angels, specifically The Sistine Madonna by Raphael, which was hung right above the toilet. It always scared me because it felt too intimate, too real. Everything was angel motif and it was always candlelit and smelled like expensive boutique hotel. I think that may be the reason I seek comfort in beautiful, dimly-lit atmospheres to this day. 

My favorite ritual of ours was wandering around Ikea. My mom in the driver's seat and me in the passenger's as he and my father drank liquor store minis in the back before we went to look through all the showrooms and leave with tealight candles and ice cream cones. When my parents and I moved away from the city and into suburbia, I used to dream about the days when my mom would let me skip school so we could rescue him from a restaurant shift, he'd make an excuse to leave early, and we'd go off on an adventure.

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