A few nights ago I was sitting on the front steps. The air was like one of those warm wet compresses that you use to pop a zit. It was about 3 a.m., and a 20-something dude was shuffling down the street sort of like a collapsed ping pong ball. He tried to get into the house across the street, and failed. He limped back toward his car. He saw me, and oozed my direction:
"My friends locked me out," he said. "I went for a walk. They went to bed and locked the door."
These were declarative sentences. But he stood in front of me waiting for some sort of answer, one I couldn't even imagine. Did he want to sleep on our couch? Did he want me to break in? Did he think I had a spare key?
I suggested he try the back door, which he did to no avail. Then, there he was in front of me with that same questionless question. I suggested he call (his phone was dead). Then I was out of answers.
Eventually I fed him beer and called him a cab back to his home in Riverside. He thanked me seven times during the 20 foot walk down the front path. He showed the cab driver his $9, and the last thing I heard was something along the lines of "How far will this get me?"
Also: I'm madly in love with summer drinking on the deck at Mexico Lindo. And the cheese enchilada doesn't suck either. I plan to do that as much as possible between now and snowfall.
Also: I didn't make one new thing this week. My inner food-maker is in a rut.
So here is what I read and watched this past week:
Rocky III: Here is a rookie error: Watching more than one Rocky in a single sitting reveals the series to be a bit, um, formulaic. Although, of the two that were consumed this week, I'm going to say this one is far superior to Rocky IV if not just for the grittiness of whatever sort of recording device they used in the 80s, then certainly for Thunderlips and Clubber Lane. And those very special moments shared between Apollo and Rocky as they slow danced to "Survivor's Greatest Hits."
Rocky IV: ... And then this one seems to have more than the usual amount of music-video montages, and looks like it shared womb space with Top Gun, and can feel it when Goose is in pain.
Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel by Hilary Thayer Hamann:
I have just spent two-plus weeks marinating in a slow vacation-style paced read of this novel by Hilary Thayer Hamann, and I think the readjustment period to normal life is going to be a bit shaky. So far it has been like yawning awake after an amazing dream. Looking around groggily and wondering, Huh. When did summer get here?
My God, this novel is intense and brilliant, so beautiful. Words I usually reserve for Haruki Murakami. This is the best thing I have read in years, filled with the best sentences I’ve ever read.
Full review here.