Monday, September 8, 2008

Runs, Strikes and Outs




I spent much of Saturday afternoon at Dodger's Stadium, where Glass had come up on box seats that were literally right behind third base. I'd never been to a baseball game before. As it wasn't a sport that my Dad or my Grandad were into, I treated it much like I did golf: a reason to turn the channel. But as I sat there with little Aidan and Juicy, listening to the crowd get excited about star player Manny Ramirez and the home run and double I watched him hit, I could see why folks are into the game. Having access to the preferred clubhouse that offered free drinks, ice cream, salads and a chef serving up prime rib, definitely helped matters. It was somewhere around this time that I got the text.

My homegirl had just finished up working a gig on a low-budget comedy and they were having a wrap party at a house the financier, a kind-hearted German gentleman, owned. Helmed by what could have been the worst DJ in the world (I'm sorry but you can't just jump from "Big Poppa" to Britney Spears "Toxic" without as a much as a fade, it was an experience watching this motley crew of folks who had worked together take some time to play. It was a cool party though, and I had a really good time.

As I loaded up on sushi and took in yet another view of the vast plain of lights that is LA after dark, a dirty quarter moon in the sky, I explained to the B-Man that I don't love the job anymore. A la Common, she's just a girl I keep fucking because there's nothing else that interests me. It will be ironic if this trip is the one that finally greases the wheels to get a career going, right when I truly don't care anymore.

But that always seems to be the classic story. When you're down and out, when you've given it all you have and nothing has come back, as you're packing your bags to get out of dodge and take a job selling fishing bait, that's when shit decides to happen. I'm making a decision not to desire anything anymore. If I can do that, then I'll never get disappointed.

There are people who want me to make LA my new home. There are others who want me to stay in Brooklyn. If I get out of New York I'll leave as quietly as I can. I don't even think I'll tell Rich or Kris or Meadows or any of my people in my ile. I'll box it all up, walk out and come back when I come back: new crib, new car, new persona or whatever. I don't think I'd be missed.

Even if I stay I think it's a good time to disappear. It would be easier to handle success in solitude than it would be to see all of the people who've forgotten my number all of sudden wanting to see what's up with me. For a long time I wanted all the things back that God took away. Now all I want is for the smoke to clear, a blank page on which to type the next chapter, one to be written far away from all that rests behind me. Out.

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