I find myself at a Starbucks in Beverly Hills
I am currently “plugged-in” at a Starbucks near Rodeo Drive, drinking some coffee and people-watching (I always order a “medium medium roast,” both because I enjoy the repetition of the word medium, and also cuz I am a twenty-three year old curmudgeon who feels the need to impotently rebel against our corporate overlords by refusing to use their obnoxious and long-mocked cup size terminology).
The place is buzzing with the shiny, well-dressed denizens of Beverly Hills on this slightly cool and overcast late December morning, and to be frankly honest? Well, I am horny as all shit and taking stock of every guy who walks in, engaging in some subtle eye-fucking with any probable “prospects” (to be clear, my version of eye-fucking is catching a gaze and looking away bashfully, because I am shy and inexperienced when it comes to the sex stuff; read: “sex stuff,” and furthermore mere looking is noncommittal, and I’m a huge fan of noncommittal).
Anyways, while standing in line to order my “medium medium roast,” I (willfully) overheard a conversation between a man whose sunglasses I assumed to be a permanent fixture on his face, and a pretty Asian-American woman who couldn’t get a word in edgewise (so less a conversation and more a monologue puncuated by a few unenthusiastic “oh wows”). The two seemed like colleagues on break, slightly uncomfortable in each other’s presence, like students doing group work at the library. The man was telling his saga of poor service at the airport: “When I pay for first-class service, I expect first-class service, you know?” and the Asian-American woman nodded, and I imagined that this same conversation at this very spot had probably occurred numerous times before, in various configurations (“When I pay for an expensive meal, I expect the server to smile at me and stroke my dick — I mean ego,” “When I buy a purebred golden retriever with credentials, I expect the creature to know that peeing on the carpet isn’t proper,” etc.)
The clientele here is largely who you’d expect: rich executive male-gender indentifying types who demand respect by ordering childish drinks like a “cinnamon dolce latte with whole milk, no foam, and an extra shot of cinnamon — thanks boss.” There’re also a few bored, well-dressed women nursing ventis, a shopping bag or two at their feet. An older pant-suited woman who’s name is probably Nancy or Fran composes an email on her Blackberry with a impassive expression. When a black man not wearing a suit walks inside, a few eyes dart up, especially since he appears to be humming a tune.
Anyways… how did I end up here? Well, here’s the short version: I was born in the year 1992, grew up in a largely white suburb with a playwright mother, parks and recreation director father, and an older sister (by three years). I experienced an idyllic/hellish childhood. I captured and released frogs, played neighborhood capture-the-flag, maintained good grades, sang in a children’s chorus… In the spring fifth grade, my older sister became mentally ill and my family went into survival mode for four years and life transformed into something new and fraught. My shyness became a tendency to isolate, and I found solace in writing, music and photography, survived middle school, joined high school theatre and chorus, attended freshman year of college in Massachusetts, transferred to a school in California, studied abroad for a semester in Amsterdam, graduated, spent two months living in a motorhome and travelling the United States, lived at home in Colorado for a couple months, and then ran away to Marina del Rey, CA, temporarily inhabiting a condo that my family inherited from a rad world-travelling great-uncle. It has recieved guests for more than a decade now. I’ve been living here for a month, but in two weeks I’ll be moving to Lincoln, Nebraska to live with my cousin. That’s the very short version, but I’ve come to realize that short versions usually suffice, and are often preferable.
In any case, at any rate: while living and travelling (solo) in a 1987 motorhome through fifteen states for two months, I wrote a blog that kept my head on straight. It helped me process all of the intense experiences that I, well, experienced. And, in the process of processing, I was able to let go of the previous day and take in the new with an open and excited heart. Thus, I have decided to start this blog so that I can process my day-to-day-non-motorhome-life in my own way (analytically and cerebrally), and hopefully provide a laugh and a feeling of “resonating” with what I write… the most personal being the most universal and all of that jazz, eh eh?
Anyways, I’m going to be living in Marina del Rey for two more weeks, and I want to make the most of it, in terms of writing about and analyzing all that I observe. So here goes:
I just spilled some cheap merlot on my crotch of my pants. For an instant, I believe it must be an omen of future (drunken) sexual gratification. Then I admonish myself for being the person who is always looking for “signs.” And then I consider this: What if signs are as real as you decide them to be? What if life is as real as you decide it to be?
I’ve clearly spent many hours all by my lonesome recently…
Ciao! (I just love peppy and “worldly” non-English sign-offs!)