Idiot Heart

At a recent social gathering, I was introduced to several new people. The introduction went something like this: "He is incredibly talented. A genius writer..." Now, with an opening like that, you might think that I was the belle of the ball. But time and again, I was politely greeted with a so, you're a writer... followed by their eyes leaving me to gaze upon the muscle-bound, blond, blue-eyed creature to my left. "And what do YOU do?" They would ask him. His reply? "I work out."

Well, I work out too. Just not enough, I suppose. But the greater dilemma here is that I live in a town where being a cultural, literate, intellectual type is a handicap. Is no one interested in thinking? I guess not. Not here at least... If you do not live in Los Angeles, count your blessings. I may be a genius here, but it does me little good. Even when I find someone I think might be interesting enough to pursue, they usually disappoint in fairly predictable ways. That is entirely my own fault for having what I have come to understand is my Idiot Heart.

I used to spend a lot of time thinking about how stupid and ugly I must be, that no one wants to be with me. Now I know that the opposite is true. I just give men far too much breadth. Must I be pickier with such limited choices? Alas, the answer is yes. I must embrace my inner-diva and force them to grovel for my affections. I invoke the Queen of the Nile, Cleopatra, and mantra the command: On your knees! On your knees! On your knees! And while you're down there....

Hell hath no fury, it's true, but I am tired of scorn. Even my imaginary friends have lovers these days.

Mitch just returned from Europe, where he partied with Nacho Vidal and some Parisian whores. The night they were arrested for throwing a statue from their balcony at Le Claridge Champs-Elysées, Mitch met Anton. Could anything be more romantic than meeting a future lover in a French prison? Anton had been picked up for petty thievery and apparently stole Mitchell's heart as well. They spent the money I had loaned Mitch, on wine and cigarettes, before finally stowing away on a Japanese whaling ship headed towards Long Beach. I went right down to pick them up and have been regaled with crazy stories ever since. I promise that I will do my best to share the least perverted of them with you, though that might be difficult. You know how Paris gets in the summertime....

Forgive that you might forget.
Amen.