had a rough night last night.

it started off fine, sopranos at this little dive bar where everyone is broke and no one talks to each other. quiet. dark. pool table is silent, jukebox only has a few old school jazz cds and doesnt really work. you give the bartender a buck and he lets you play a few tracks.

its in one of the worst parts of hollywood but its a great bar because it doesnt have any of those stupid Miller Geninue Draft or Budweiser bikini posters of chicks you’ll never meet. Just bottles lined up nice, peanuts, glasses, and losers.

They have a tv over the “stage”. Apparently the place used to have a go go dancer back when hollywood was a little more glamorous, because go go dancers are the epitome of class, but now the stage houses the old rack stereo system. turntable on top, double cassette deck, single cd player, records warping below.

most of us watched the tv. i had a hot cider and spiced rum. its getting cold in town.

cute alternachick always likes to try to fix me when she sees me in there. she reads this. hi baby. sometimes she’ll get on me about my clothes. she’ll say, every pay check just buy one new thing. a shirt. a pair of pants. a sweater. before you know it you’ll be dressing sharp.

i dont want to dress sharp. i want to look like i belong in a fucked up hollywood bar on a sunday night, i tell her.

she tells me i look like an immigrant from hondouras.

i look down at my bart simpson tshirt, old black cords, kmart sneakers, green flannel shirt, plastic sacks of oranges.

i tell her she looks like britney murphy’s stand in for 8 mile. she smiles. her gold tooth sparkles at me.

shes not so bad. really looks more like helena bonham carter in fight club, just not as classy.

arent you tired of being broke? she asks me.

who says im broke, i pay for all your drinks dont i?

do you have a grand in the bank?


then youre broke. quit being an asshole.

truth was i was tired of being broke. i just didnt want to tell her. she was the best thing in that bar, next to the jukebox.

why dont you sell out and write like a normal human being? she asked and squeezed the lime into her wiskey sour.

why dont you sell out and become an administrative assistant.

we clinked glasses.

to keeping it real, she toasted.

we drank and she said real quiet, if you were twenty one again what would you do differently?

i said, i would go to photography school right after i got my BA.

i said what about you?

she said, i would get a boob job and become a publicist.

alison lives

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