A while back someone was talking about what voice they heard when they read posts. You're free, of course, to choose any voice you wish for me when you read this, but, if you'd like to hear my voice in your head as it sounds right now in real life, it sounds something like this: it is hoarse, deep and sticky from overindulgence, overuse and lack of rest, marked by a slight California dude accent (like Keanu Reeves turned down a bit), and interrupted by the occasional moan. This post is part love letter and part whingefest (and you can bet it's gonna be a rambler). Oh, I do love to complain. Right at the top of things to complain about is the terrible pain I am in. Nipping at its heels in the second position is my past night's inability to sleep. But I don't think the pain has anything to worry about. I have a feeling that this is a chart topper with legs. We could be looking at an historic reign at number one for this pain. Insert moan. I reinjured myself last night. Sprained my ankle something awful in May, crutches, air brace, vicodin (it wasn't all bad), the whole shebang. Anyhoo, I was making a fine recovery until last night when I took a bad step on some uneven ground and gave it a really good twist. Really good. Now I'm just waiting for mumsy to come back from the store with Dr. Pepper and ibuprofen. This is, I think, all I can look forward to today. But, you may be asking, as Heart once did, "what about love?" Yes, the love I mentioned. Well, I fell in love last night, again, for the first time. We had a glorious night. Nothing extraordinary mind you. To hear me describe it you might think it sounds quite an average evening. But it was perfect because we shared it. I am just about as smitten as can be right now with this city. Oh, sorry. Did you think I was talking about a person? No, L.A. is my lady. Every time I come back here she opens herself up to me a little more and she only becomes more beautiful. I remember, growing up down here, being taught in grade school about the different types of climates that exist in the world. They told me that coastal Southern California has a 'mediterranean' climate. Maybe you've seen the Olive Garden commercial where the old Italian women steal the old men's clothes while they are swimming. This prank is supposed to illustrate the sense of fun and passion for life that people in that region have which, the advertisers would have you believe, you can experience to some degree when you eat at the Olive Garden. Now, if by passion for life you mean breadsticks your dog couldn't chew through and by sense of fun you mean wine that will unstop your sink then yeah, that's what you'll get at the Olive Garden. But other than that, I think the commercial speaks the truth. I've traveled a bit and I would say that that people of the Mediterranean do seem to be more open and fun loving than others. Last night it seemed to me that L.A. might share more than a climate with these peoples. I was at the Farmer's Market for karaoke last night and the joie d' vivre on display was just staggering. Someone sang Randy Newman's "I Love L.A.", a brilliant song incidentally, and when it came time for the call and response at the end everyone was screaming "we love it!" and we meant it. A woman who had to be 65 if she was a day sang "I've got the music in me" followed by a vato type guy singing Buster Poindexter's "Hot! Hot! Hot!" which generated a conga line. A mulleted dude in an Iron Maiden shirt sang "Shiny Happy People" sans irony. And this was a party for everybody. Eight to eighty-eight. Every color you can imagine. Everybody shaking what the lord gave 'em. I had signed up to sing "Baba O'Riley" and was a little worried because not many people were really doing rock n' roll. But I got up, gave it my all, and their cheers were as warm and sincere as a mother's love. It was glorious. It was upon leaving the market that my ankle and the asphalt conspired together to cut my night short. But, like I said, I was in love. Mere injury could not stop us. A quick stop at the drugstore for a cold pack and it was time to bowl. At the bowling alley I discovered several things: 1. I bowl better with my ass exposed. Don't ask me to explain it and don't look if you're just gonna complain about how white, flabby, hairy, and/or pimply it is. It's power is undeniable. James Brown got soulpower. I got asspower. 2. Rum and cokes sit surprisingly well on red wine. Is it some magic exception to the no mixing rule? Or did I just magically dodge a bullet the way you do sometimes? Clearly more research needs to be done in this area. 3. DDR is fawking hard. How do Chu do what he do? Granted, I was drizunk on the trizunk and nursing a game ankle but damn! This was failure on a whole new level. When the bowling had run its course (108!) we all went out to Canter's, a 24 hour deli with some damn good matzo ball soup. Real cities are open 24 hours. Do you know what Seattle has that's open 24 hours? Nothing you really want to visit. Greasy spoons full of vampires and people with nowhere else to go. I got in about 4:45 and for once, I realized, I was exactly where I wanted to be. I didn't have that vague longing that someone on the list was talking about recently, thinking that other places were somehow better and the people there were having more fun. Someone once said (how many times have I said that in a post?) Los Angeles is the lover in whose arms you would not want to die. Well, last night, I would've said the pleasure, the privilege is mine. ice packs and advil, Rinaldo _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. 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