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Sometimes
I miss the good old days, hanging with Lou Reed and Ultraviolet and Candy
Darling back at the factory. "Oh, that Todd," Andy Warhol used
to joke to whoever was conscious, "He's such the Star."
Then we'd trade silkscreens and off I'd go on my merry way. Those days
are long behind me, though I still cry whenever I listen to Transformer.
Goodbye
Andy, goodbye Studio 54, hello obscurity.
So,
now I'm in SF, biding my time until I cash in on my fifteen minutes of
fame. I'm working on a novel, still type-type-typing away. I surround
myself with books and music. I dream of making the perfect risotto, realizing
it'll never happen if I keep eating out as much as I do.
I
have played one continuous game of "Let's run from one end of the
apartment to the other" with my puppy since January. I scrounge along
the ground for plastic bags. I get caught in thought over what I'd say
to David Bowie over coffee and crepes. I go out dancing from time to time
— pretend it's 1980 all over again. I sing Holy Holy to TwoBuck Chuck
from Trader Joe's.
I
saunter into the secondhand shops on the Haight with my Head Held High...and
emerge empty-handed, hopes dashed into the urine-stinking pavement...I
am the Anti-Scenester. And I wouldn't spend my days a bit differently.
I
love this place.
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