I survive the day today at Amoeba. Just barely. For some reason I’m gripped by a ravaging hunger and a muscle consistency like that of under-cooled Jell-o.
Wait. I say that like I’ve forgotten that I awoke this morning at nine, that I went to bed just five hours before that, that somewhere between then I attend a part on Las Palmas in between Franklin and Hollywood Boulevards in a house that was built in 1903, where currently reside Dave, Hiland, Inez and Adrian, and where several dozen fellow Amoebites and friends come crashing down for a night of revelry. And that somewhere in there I drink a bottle of Castoro Cellars (ancient vine) Zinfandel out of a tumbler.
Here’s what that looks like:
From top left: Hiland, Lauren, Tomatoes (yes, I said Tomatoes,) Ricardo as the Easter Mummy, Tomatoes’ back (that tattoo is one single unbroken line,) James Brown, Pete Majors, Brett Sweat (Thriller era,) Josh watching Adrian break two guitar strings, Omar, Me & Hiland, Me & Rodolfo, Olivia, Heidi and finally, Kaman as one of the girls from the Electric Company…but dead.
