Sunday, May 10, 2015
Paul McCartney built a huge house not a block off the Boulevard as big as a castle. People are beginning to realize it and have started taking pictures of it. Yesterday walking back to the car, I saw a young couple taking a picture with a cell phone, and just for fun I yelled out,
"What are you doing!"
They turned startled and looked at me.
"You can't take pictures of the house," I said with authority.
"Why not," said the uncertain boy."
"Do you know whose hose this is?" I asked in a harsh tone.
The couple looked at each other asking with their eyes if they should confess.
"I'm fucking with you," I said with a laugh. "It's a great house, huh?"
They chuckled a bit in relief and turned back to take the picture.
The girl I was with asked me, "Why'd you do that?"
"Just for fun," I said. "They will always remember that moment. In years to come, they will be somewhere having fun and one of them will say, "Remember that asshole at the McCartney's house," and the other will laugh and say, "Yea, what a jerk." But it is not emblazoned in their collective memory.
I don't think she was impressed. She is a calmer sort than I.
We were coming from an outdoor lunch at a fabulous Thai restaurant. I was in a mood, I guess. We had a young waitress who was having trouble remembering the names of the Thai beers on the menu.
"You should hang out with my friend here. You both like to smoke it up apparently." She grinned and said, "I'll take the fifth." But she was definitely a stoner and was cute and happy.
"Did you know Paul McCartney has a house around here?"
I pointed across the street. "Yea, it's right there. It's the one that looks like it might be a small hotel."
"I saw him at breakfast this morning," she said.
"Did he have an entourage?"
"No, but he was in a section that was blocked off from the public. His stepson is graduating from Country Club College this weekend."
"I wonder if he'll sing the fight song?" I asked.
I began to write a story in my mind that I thought to tell as truth here. In it, I told her that I lived there, that I was a personal handler, and that she seemed like the right kind of girl, and if she wanted to come, there was a party starting at eight tonight, that she should dress up a bit and not be late. Eight sharp if she wanted in. Do you want in? I would ask. I thought maybe I'd sit outside in the car when she showed up and knocked on the door which was opened and then to my astonishment, she was invited in. I didn't get any further, though, and now it seems to contrived to even mention.
At the end of the lunch, though, a black man with a huge Jesus Saves sign walked by on the sidewalk yelling out his drivel. Everyone acted either like he wasn't there or that this was normal and o.k. My response was a reflex.
"Hey, get the fuck out of here," I said.
He yelled out some more drivel about Jesus Saves, and I replied, "How's that working out for you?"
My dining companion looked a bit off-put.
"Sorry," I said. "I just don't know why people put up with that. I'd get arrested if I started yelling out the things I believe. Holy shit, the cops would be here in seconds. Fuck him."
I looked around the tables. Some were smiling and nodding, some were looking at their plates.
I guess I was in a mood. That is what happens sometimes, though. I like it. I am somehow half alive.
Posted by cafe selavy at 8:49 AM