A Weekend of Substance, i.e. Meat

After reading THIS, despite the fact that it is not at all well-written, I decided to take a break from vegetarianism for an evening and seek out some grass-fed beef.  C., the man who loves me, and I went out to a place on the Sunset Strip called The Burger Lounge.

It was good. Really good.

There was more meat to come--at a reading for the launch of Issue 2 for The Rattling Wall held at the trés chic Hollywood Standard. Lots of opportunity for people watching as we waited for the show to begin. And support for C's theory that the hipness of a hotel bar is inversely proportionate to the light in the bathroom. All those pretty people are so dang fine that they don't need to check their eyeliner or their lipstick, I guess.

There was interesting signage--which made us wonder if pictograms ought to employ
punctuation.

  

There was a sort of real-life pictogram, too. Behind the check-in desk in the lobby, there was a large glass case with a gorgeous woman lying on a bed. As if to say, "Hey! This is a hotel! And we have beds! And maybe you could have a someone as attractive as this in your bed if you hang out in this neighborhood long enough!" It seemed too awkward to photograph her, so I didn't. You'll have to take my word for it that a hotel on the Sunset Strip would display a woman on a bed in a glass case.

But the real substance of this Hollywood night (held poolside with a view of The City of Angels spread out before us, of course!) was the reading. I was fascinated by the way the featured writers presented their work--prefacing it or not. Interjecting comments or barreling straight through their material in full-out performance mode. Reading from the magazine or choosing something else entirely.

This morning the man who loves me and I were still talking about Jon Sands's poems, how there really are those moments in life that change everything, how an artist's commitment to his material can be so profoundly moving.

Cat/fish

In the dream, my son and his wife T. live in a long low rambling house a few miles from a river. The house is a rendez-vous point where I often meet my aunt and uncle who have a boat they take out on the river. Or sometimes I use the house as a jumping-off point to drive to the river and visit them.

My aunt and uncle like to barbeque, and they want to cook burgers for all of us--my son, T. and their kids. I figure they'll bring their Coleman grill and some charcoal, but instead they arrive in their station wagon with the burgers all cooked. They pull them out of a cooler in the back--already on paper plates. It's not what I expected, but it works.

Another time, I go fishing on the river and catch a big orange fish. I bring it back to the house and later when I go to look at it, I see it's not a fish at all. It's a tabby cat with a gash in its side that looks a bit like a gill. It's still alive, and it looks as if I can nurse it back to health. "I didn't know it was a cat," I tell T. I'm worried it might have fleas, and now maybe there are fleas in the house, but T. doesn't seem upset about it at all.

Later she and I go shopping in a big warehouse. There's household stuff there. Cleaning supplies and light bulbs and stuff like that. It's dark in the warehouse. They keep the lights off because of the heat and turn them on section by section when needed. T. and I wander apart, and I befriend a clerk and walk across the parking lot with her to the employee lounge. I have my cart full of stuff with me which feels a bit awkward because I haven't paid yet. The clerk and I talk about travel--how there are so many places she wants to go. She's married and very pretty with long brown hair that swishes across her back when she walks. She's forty. "You're young," I tell her. After her break we walk back to the store together, and I feel a bit guilty that I've gotten separated from T. My son is there to pick us up, and they are looking for me.

Before I can go I have to load the wooden rocking horses into the cart that I've gotten for the kids. Somehow I've managed to carve designs into them, and they're nicely done. One of the designs is a sort of swastika, and I feel obligated to explain to the proprietor of the store that before it was appropriated by the Nazis, the swastika was a Native American symbol. The proprietor likes my work, he tells me. The carving is expertly done, he says, and he likes the piece of iron work that I've designed, too. No one questions how it is that I've come to this store to buy these things that I've made. We load them into the cart and roll to the car.