Sunday August 19, 2001

David was reading and holding his hand in the air. It was swiveling atop his forearm. His voice dipped and his lungs pushed out exuberant but precise strings of words. We had been swept up, Sherry and me, and we listened to this evening's 5th hour of someone reading what they had written. But this hour was different from the previous four because the three of us had escaped to David's house in the Sunset and he was reading from his Toshiba Satellite 2135CSE. I was stoned. Sherry had her shoes off. David had hardened spit clacking in the corners of his mouth.

David had taken a likin' to us after I read my emails at a writing group. He offered to give us a ride to the indierock show we were going to. It was the wrong night for that show so we drove around and talked feverishly. It was just feverish talk about a bunch of shit. We shut The Philosopher's Stone down and missed beer 'o'clock at Safeway and we had to be real quiet when we got to his apartment. There was a guy sleeping in the living room. I was so stupid. I had my video camera with me but I didn't film the insides of his room. It was just as interesting as the back seat of his car. But I can't describe that either. I should have shot it while he wailed on about his film-nut hero driving back from a film festival. David went to New York today. Man, that was great. I was so stupid.

Pritha Murdeshwar. Funny, I got the same shot of Brian.