i wrapped the 25aday job. i sung joyously. i tap danced. i turned in all my gas receipts and burned incense. i sacrificed to the god of no regret.
but apparently money was another matter.
see they owe me. owe me big. yah, that's it. that's the ticket. actually they owe me 1) a kickback so i wouldn't walk 2) 2 wks pay 3) one un-paid gas receipt.
why they're bastards: all three things are still in check form. not in my hand. not in my bank and the bills are coming. i'm sure it's all going to be just fine, but there's that urge to kill- to go down there and ... when i called all i could say was, see. lady. i got bills to pay. and she said, don't we all. but that doesn't make it right does it? i should stop complaining shouldn't i. 'xcept i went down to Sunset Blvd and found a parking space (pretty damn near providential). fed the meter a few quarters and set my watch for an hour. went to get my check. have a drink. check out the view. then cut the light fantastic out of town. i thought, hey, this is all working out just fine. they're gonna give me mine. i still had to pack you know and here i was walking into the Park Hyatt (i wasn't going to pay 10 bucks for parking.) And the already wasted LP tells me, sorry. no. i look to the sky and check for rain. i check out the rooftop and get a drink. it's bland, like cookie cutter LA bland. sure i can see all the lights and the hills but somethings not quite right. we all seem to sense the pretense. but the music is nice.
a' bunch of New York types playing at making movies. i wish them all to hell. but not before i get my money. makes me wish i knew some mobsters.
--
sorry, i didn't mean to go on so long. the rest really speaks for itself. almost tears were involved at the end of both points. and now i'm here in the rain and waiting for something quintessential to strike me. better not be lightening or my maxed credit card. i want this to be good but i can't say how.
4 comments:
Are you really in New York? Or is this whole thing an elaborate ruse employed by a mastermind. A mastermind who doesn't want to go to Elizabeth's birthyday party.
Imagination. It's key. How about that Twilight Zone when Burgess Meredith plays a convict who believes he is flying in outer space and burns up on re-entry having never left his jail cell?
Why was Hollywood always so cruel to Burgess Meredith?
Yo, Mickey! I love you, man. Let's go round up some riled chickens.
Not much proof... A post card has been received postmarked, New York and written in the hand of the writer Mendacious. To fake such a thing is troublesome.
Post a Comment