I met with Bob at Kean today so I could order a new automatic clutch for his Whizzer. (No, really!)
The patio was packed with moms and babies because the new expensive baby food store was having a grand opening Halloween event.
“Expensive baby food store” falls short of the mark. “Pomme Bébé” looks at first to be a high-end salon, art gallery, and Apple Store in one spot. Whiteness gleams tastefully. Sheer ivory surfaces, smock-clad employees, menu of the day in the style of an ice cream store. They sell organic and otherwise perfect food for infants.
So as Bob and I ordered bike parts on the Internet and bullshitted and played with his dog Mancha, this river of super-rich mothers flowed. They were all 20 and perfect forever, and their babies were all 6 months old and perfect forever. The baby carriages themselves were worth more than my car. They stretch across the sidewalk and have racks and racks of toys clacking above their passengers. More than a few were double wides with twin skulls bobbling in them.
Mancha slumped on our feet in a heavily adoring way and we skritched him. My iced tea was good.
Saw Tom today, for the first time in more than 20 years. I went to high school with him and I think saw him once after that. In the meantime he’s had a few careers and is currently fully employed saving the world. This is a damned good thing in that the world is in need of saving and Tom is both smart and on the side of the angels.
I tried to explain some of the more recent features of our locale including Mortgage Bro ‘n’ Ho Culture, the Vanguard Nice Christian Kid Death Star Attack, and the deadly affluenza of drugs and alcohol among the Kids These Days. Not sure if I was sufficiently descriptive.
I went away with the happy feeling of having reconnected, some good stories from both of us, and a sticker that says COALITION CONVOY / STAY BACK 50 METERS / DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED in English and Arabic. I think that is going to go on the laptop. I’ll leave the rest of the storytelling to him, if he chooses to tell the stories.
On the way over there I was listening to Indie 103 (which I’m liking more and more) and it was Steve Jones’ show. It was a crazy reunion show at that because Jonesy had John Lydon on the show and they were bullshitting and laughing about the Sex Pistols days. Best quote was from Lydon: “And we were very confused, as one ought to be.”
Anyway they wrapped up the show as I was driving from the shrink’s office to meet Tom at Kéan. Just as I drove past my alma mater, all decorated with happy cheerleader girls doing the splits, the radio spat out “God Save the Queen” and I realized that this was something like my 25th anniversary of driving past that high school blasting that song on my car radio.
I talk back to the car radio a lot, particularly when it’s not making sense. Today I heard a commercial shilling for a local supermarket chain’s loyalty program. The pitch was that you were supporting local schools because they’d give the kids a pencil for every 400,000 cucumbers sold, etc. The ad was pure SPIN selling, starting with “Education is so important. Our schools need new books and new computers all the time so children can progress. And there’s something you can do to help!” At which point I yelled “YEAH, YOU COULD PAY YOUR FUCKING TAXES!” That’s when I noticed that my window was opening and that the motorcyclist next to me was grinning at me.
Dinner: Chilled poached salmon with mayonnaise and dill; toasted pita bread with a dollop of hummus and fresh ground black pepper; caprese salad with fresh tomatoes on vine, fresh ovolini mozzarella, fresh basil, and good olive oil. Time to prepare: 15 minutes.
I was at Kéan for just an hour or so today, to cool off and slurp a cold coffee beverage. Rich unhappy people have such scrunched-up, sour faces even when they’re experiencing pleasures most of the world will never see. Looking dissatisfied when you’re having a dark chocolate mocha milkshake in an air-conditioned cafe in Paradise just after buying an iPod must be difficult, but they manage it.
At Trader Joes a plastic surgery disasters woman in her fifties was dragging her husband around hectoring him about their purchases. She’d perch angrily next to some item and pick it up: “Do you want these? Do you like yellow mustard? I like Dijon mustard. Do you want it? Are we going to get Dijon mustard?” He was a tired Tommy Lee Jones who didn’t say much except “Okay,” or “Go ahead.”
90 degrees and humid means that all the beautiful people were showing flesh today. Including the very genuinely beautiful ones and not just the ones who had purchased the standard of beauty as an aftermarket option. A six-footer surfer boy, all tanned abs and long bones and bleached hair-mp, was looking at frozen food next to a hourglass-figured blonde beach goddess with honey-colored skin and shockingly bright blue eyes. They were unaware that they were a Guess! ad because they were trying to figure out which kind of peas to get.
The flower shop next to Kéan has an appropriately fancy name, but their sign with their url on it looks like they’re selling the flowers eaten by a demon rather than those painted by an Impressionist. It’s not as obvious as “powergenitalia” but they should have realized.
I am currently maintaining crushes on at least three unavailable women. Go me!
In musical news, I’m going to see Steve Wynn this Friday night. It may well be a real Dream Syndicate reunion show of some kind. I have an extra ticket if you’re interested and can go with or meet me at McCabe’s Guitars in Santa Monica.
I have “Percy’s Song” as done by Fairport Convention in my head.