My half-full store bought drink stands wearily on my roommates desk.
The morning birds and respiratory-related noise of squirrels match the hums of our freshly stocked refrigerator. Store bought concoctions purchased with student credit (we don't imagine ourselves living anywhere nice in the next ten years, much like Hemingway he says). I always awake to such avid curiosity after nights like these. I christen my age as my future is not around the corner any longer, but rather just a simple compass spin to decide where on Philadelphia and Painter I turn after graduating.
So with my month-old Chianti bottle I stroll, to discover the two happiest visions to be seen in the early morning (this far inland, at least): an untouched stack of LA Times and a water fountain. After a brisk gulp or five of (LA County's greatest) tap water, I discard the classifieds, slippery color ads, and the business section (luckily into our over sized recycling Tupperware), but fish back the business for lack of better judgement, and glimpse a Dodger weekend section perfect for my ex-pat mother. Or whatever you call Californians who cannot avoid moving to other states, let alone the one to our right. Joe Torre may mean change for this city of angeles, but he means a helluva lot more to my mother, so long as we get a few starting pitchers that can make leaving New York worth Torre's while. Oh wait...
I've distracted myself in this two-thirds sleepy, dark room with "news" of the Speedo LZR Racer controversy, American and Delta's decrepit plane technology, Basra Shiite scariness, whatever Private Investment in Public Equity solicitation is, and another Laker "technical difficulty" loss. I really don't see the point in straying from the Lakers blog whenever Jon Abrams feels it necessary to test his wit this early on a Thursday. Phil Jackson diatribes after losses are always refreshing after losing so lamely to freaking Charlotte Bobcats.
The Home section actually reminded me that I live in LA, where credit it given solely to those of whom are overpopulating the bumps and beaches of Malibu. ie The Arnoldi's.
Friends of Gehry's, aluminum fiends, who employ lonely succulents to serve as backyard sculpture, rather than subliminally emphasizing why xeriscaping is key in such flambable lands. People who are speaking of their artistry too loudly in this economy, rather than letting the three pages of photography do the talking.
American culture already has me looking at other colleges for greener grasses (maybe all too literally in my case), but now I ought to have reverence for those who live in immaculate, artsy homes in times like these? Maybe the Times has something to prove, or networking to seek out, but I for one would like to embrace this morning and opportunities I have, however slim; hoping my dreams are never constructed by dimly lit pictures of people in designer jeans and indifferent poses, hailed for not being gaudy.
Publicity is truly inescapable in this city, so what makes it so goddamn cool?
(On that note, I'm elated to day it's been 16 days since I've checked Perez Hilton or ONTD)
