Friday
I did something on Friday. I know I did. I just can’t seem to remember what it was. Maybe it was just sit around and watch The Sopranos: Season 3. Very possible.
Saturday
The company picnic. I got sunburned, but otherwise, made a complete ass out of myself — in a good way. The reason: hours before, I signed the final papers for the divorce. As far as the United States Government is concerned, I am now a single man. As far as I am concerned… I don’t know. My heart is still unequipped for a relationship, although there have been more than a few offers. At the end of the picnic, I told
He said, “Aiiight.”
“So, get ready,” I told him.
“I’ve got the vaseline out in the car,” he said.
Saturday night, I ditched a bowling party. I hate bowling. One of those things my parents forced me to do when I was young — as a family, you know. I suck at it and I don’t like doing things I’m no good at. That’s why this whole “dating thing” scares the crap out of me. I haven’t done it in seven years. Been single. Done the wooing thing. I have to remember how to do it. Used to be good at it, now, I just feel like a desperate, dirty old man. I need practice. Lots of it.
Sunday
I woke up at 2:00. Cowboy Ron and Chris showed up and we went to the 3rd Street Prominade. Saw a scene that made me wish I had a camera.
There’s this guy playing classical guitar on the prominade. There’s a lot of guitar players on the Prominade, so they’re easy to overlook. Not this guy. He’s got a golden mask — the kind you’d see in EYES WIDE SHUT. Gorgeous, beautiful mask. He’s also wearing a silk cape. The Masked Guitarist. And he’s brilliant. Playing beautiful Spanish style on a 12-string, making all those metal guys look like amateurs with his amazingly fast and furious fingerwork. So, we’re standing there, watching this guy, and I’m wishing I had even just a buck on me, because this guy is so worth a buck. Then, out of nowhere, a guy stinking of urine and feces steps into the scene. His hair is ratted, his beard full and thick and tangled. He’s carrying his only possession in the whole, wide world: a nasty blanket. He’s just on the edge of the crowd, stepped right through them up to the precipise of the comfort zone. He’s behind the guitar guy, just five or so feet away from him.
And he’s smiling. With absolute joy. Just smiling. Watching and listening to this man pull pure heaven out of twelve strings.
Then, the homeless guy is gone, and so is the moment. The Masked Guitarist never even knew he was there. It was a perfect shot. It really embodies everything about Santa Monica, right there, in that one moment. I wish I had a camera.