Log Illustrated - a publication from the Physics RoomLog 12 - The Pink and Blue Number
Log 12 - The Pink and Blue Number



B (: hand jive -the brother shake, gangsta salute.. honky!)
C (: botox is a form of plastic surgery where you have this sht injected directly injected into your face to paralyse the nerves, and hence the aging process.)

it never rains in Southern California. Well hardly ever. It rained today. It’s still raining now. It feels good. So good that it’s driving weather. I went for a drive. My motive was to pick up tickets for the Suicide show. They’re playing tonight and tomorrow. I want to go tomorrow, and I’m pretty sure it will sell out cos in LA everything does. And I like driving in the rain. Not through, over, or under, but in the rain. So I stood outside my car for a long while getting kinda soaked, towel dry in the car, and I start driving. And cos it’s raining LA seems to have changed. Everybody from nowhere has an umbrella. Where and how I don’t know but everybody at once and at one cross of a block appears with an umbrella and they’re glancing sinister under their baseball and wool hats at each other. Kinda smirking while they’re doing it. Everbody sharing, everybody in on it. Nobody letting on. Cos it’s Hollywood and it’s like a game. So I start to play. And as soon as I begin, I drive slower. And cooler. And everybodys walking slower and looking sinister and smirking and smoking. Smoking’s pretty much illegal in this city but today cos its raining everybody smokes. Again. So, I’m driving real slow with a cigarette and cars are piling up behind me; that’s how slow I’m going and nobody honks. Cos nobody’s letting on. And at every light and every cross I glare sinister at all pedestrians and they look back at me from under their hats. And although it’s only day all I can see are their cigarettes and their eyes. And it’s only now after living here for three months do I feel like I’m in a real city. Cos LA doesn’t seem like a real city. It’s too bright. The tones like the accents scream pastel neons like Florida or Miami but it’s always daytime. Today it’s different. Today it’s raining. And the adrenaline’s pumping. And I’m a kid driving down Sunset Boulevard and this kid only answers to Starsky and even then only between smirks and smokes. So after an hour-long steam chase for only two miles I pull into a parking lot and light a smoke, and step on out. Only I don’t have an umbrella and I realise if I walk then I’m just gonna look like the tourist I obviously am. And I don’t wanna let on. So I get back in the car and drive around the block. And it still feels good. Everybody’s still playing their part and instead of screaming road rage in coarse striped accents everybody’s mumbling. And an American accent mumbled is probably the coolest English accent in the world. Especially when you’re short of breath cos you’ve just smoked a new pack in ten minutes and the rain’s pushing the smog even lower than usual, and you’re living in it and it feels like a millenium-plagued sauna. And I’m smiling and I get out again cos Johnnyforeigner or no Johhny-foreigner I want to walk through these people. So I do. And I buy the tickets for tomorrow and the guy at the booth laughs at me cos although Suicide should be bigger than Texas, nobody’s there and no tickets have sold; but I presale anyway cos like the magic hats and umbrellas these yanks get kinda clever when pressed. So I buy the tickets and I’m looking forward to driving the few blocks home to the same action soundtrack, when I look inside this diner. It’s on Hollywood Boulevard and there’s three people in there outside of the staff. There’s a fella in the far corner underneath the TV but facing away from it. He’s old. He’s lined. He’s scratching. He’s whispering conspiratorially with himself. He’s a junkie. He’s cool. He’s in the movie. The other two are a teenage Mexican couple mumbling great Spanish slang and hand in between french kisses and fries. They’re in too. I go in. I mumble my fried chicken and coffee order real quiet cos I don’t want to let on. Stranger in the midst. New Zealander in Hollywood’s skankiest diner. While it’s raining. And on the television the world series is on. And it’s the final. And the yankees are playing. And as I sit with my coffee and point right back at my pal in the corner, the game is won. It’s baseball. It’s live. The Yankees win. They win the world series. They win it in a diner on Hollywood Boulvard; they play to a teenage couple of gangbanging puppies and they play above an old man scratching and falling asleep to his own best company. And I’m with the couple and I’m with him. And as the kitchen staff come out and applaud the TV for the sport and the win, a bearded security man steps in. He’s as big as he is black and he’s smiling like the cream was always his, cos he’s from New York and he loves the Yankees. And he laughs and he hugs the kitchen staff and he slaps me jive and I smile like I’m five years old and I’m beginning to love this country. And I eat my chicken and everybody’s happy cos more people have arrived and they’re all talking baseball and even I’m happy. And after half an hour the old guy in the corner stands up and asks nobody; “Who won?” And reluctantly I leave and the botox grease of the street is the same grease as in me. And I feel good and I swagger across Sycamore and Hollywood. And I trip up and fall on the road and it’s raining on me. Still. And everybody’s smoking. Still. And this new old guy who I tripped into says “Watch it man”. And I look up and it’s Alan Vega from Suicide. And I’ve met a few celebrities in my short stint in California but only one like this, and she had a Corvette that matched her boots. So I’m kinda starstruck. And Alan’s wearing his trademark blueblocker aviator shades. In the rain. And it’s now night. And I’ve been called cool before but only from people who didn’t know me and it’s obvious that this guy bowls in a different alley. And I tell him “it’s an honour” and he gets pretty shy and I tell him “that with all the drugs and fucking I’ve done to his music he may as well be Barry White”. And he tells me “To come hang out”. And I say “I can’t, cos I’m gonna pick up my girlfriend who’s been working her ass off serving sushi to the undeserving; but I’ll see him tomorrow cos I’ve got the motherfucking tickets”. And he says “Come hang out after the show”, and and I smile like a five year old. Outside. In the open. And I let on. And ruin it for everybody... And sometimes. At least when it’s raining. I love this town.

I could have written a story about the time I went as solo honky to a homeless ghetto blasting gospel service in Oakland and was prayed for (and served free fried chicken)... Or, the time I took too much coke at an illegal afterhours (LA -welcome to the prohibition) and drove through Gladys Knight’s producer’s fence... Or, the time I hung out with some Boyz to Men in the same studio that MJ recorded Thriller... Or, the time I got absurdly hooked up in a collaboration with Rod Stewart’s producer at a Malibu scenester party...

But all that comes later and today is cooler. I smiled a lot more. And tomorrow the sun’s out.

daniel mancini is a child runaway... and an accomplished pornographer... he is currently stinking out hollywood... as the don quixote of private investigators... and the pete best of the free world...



Log Illustrated - a publication from the Physics Room