GIRLI, “Mr 10pm Bedtime”

Back in college, during the heyday of this site, I was far more liable to track down music videos for my favorite songs. Over the past year I’ve realized that, even approaching 30 years old, it remains as much fun to watch them with friends and banter, jumping between recent faves without a through line beyond that.

As I fear I might become Mr. 10pm Bedtime myself, there are all these flickering reminders that I’m still enjoying the same conduct as Mr. 6am Bedtime. That, and the fact I can’t stop projecting perfection onto GIRLI. Grimes is dead, long live GIRLI and her dedication to the rumpus and her post-rave trash-fairy genius. I’m getting a magnetic labret to facilitate kissin’.

While pulling a beer from my fridge, I looked at my cat and said “Poncey: it’s on-cey.” We’ve been roommates for four years and I’ve never said this before. It was right there all along.

Leaving work today, the housekeeper saw me off with a “Goodbye, be careful!” as she usually does. But before the door closed, I heard “Brian!” And turned back.
“Be careful of, ah-…” She tried to find the words. And she did.
“Beautiful women!”
I told her she had nothing to worry about, they weren’t a threat to me.

I work with a stuffed animal distributor. I hate that they don’t refer to their warehouse as “The Bearhouse.” It’s such a simple flourish that might engender some anger. But to those whom it really matters, like myself, it’d be kind. It’s a kindness.

I came back into the office from fetching the mail at about 3pm today. If you don’t know, Los Angeles is weird, where we always have this breeze going even if the temperature is in triple digits. Something to do with the beach leading into the desert stretching into a  sprawling wasteland, I’m no gustologist (which almost certainly a better term for a food scholar more than a wind scholar.)
Point is that often in mornings, it’s cold. Sometimes in the shade during the summer, there’s a chill. But I strolled into the sun and the breeze was gentle enough that it landed nicely. I did want to curl up on the asphalt; it’d be worth inconveniencing others.
I came back into the office and told my co-worker, “it is so nice in the sun this very moment.” She asked me, “nice in a good way?” I puzzled over this and can only figure she was thinking nice like a Nice Guy and now I cannot stop picturing the sun in a fedora, expecting us to thank it for always hovering, doing us the favor of sweat.

Today I wore a 10 year-old shirt. There are new identical holes on each shoulder, the result of washing over time. The sleeves are going to slough off me at some point, but like a phoenix, perhaps the Tommy Hilfiger will be reborn.

I like that folks who work in corporate contract departments get to call themselves “Risk Management.” They sound like Masters of Chance, tipping die rolls with a swish of a finger. The title is, of course, something they scored while negotiating their employment contracts.

A homeless man on a bike pulled up to me outside McDonald’s and asked for a smoke. Told him they were back at my apartment. There was a flicker of recognition before he asked “are you the guy who… Benzos?” I laughed and said “I wish!” before he biked off without another word. I resolved to give a dollar to another homeless man I’d turned down on my way to McDo. He was no longer there when I passed.

I found a K-Mart box fan on the sidewalk in front of my house. It blows perfectly, which is a rare phrase. The white noise is a bonus. Even though I have a window AC unit, I’m loathe to turn it on; for what space it cools, the electric bill heats up. I’ve propped the fan on an end table near the second window and pointed it at my bed from across the room. Ponce is now laying to my left, slumped into a fluff barricade between the air current and my body. That’s more than fine.