Kicked off the day by faxing out five resumes for jobs ranging from library aide to something to do with the Occidental Petroleum Corporation. Then, I contacted a Temp. Insanity Agency that wants to interview me at 8:30 am tomorrow to see what assignments I might qualify for. "Ordinary every-day son of a bitch","Seems like your run of the mill proto-typical asshole," these are the comments bound to shove me along to assignment'A.' Well, that's that for the unemployed. Time for recreation. The day's work is over. Off to the beach.

Kirstem and I yuppied it up. Rather than riding bike in our neighborhood like any other respectable poor white trash, we loaded up her SUV with the bikes and voyaged southwest to Santa Monica Beach. I hadn't rode bike in many years and was a bit concerned with regaining a steady ease on such a high traffic path. Turns out there was no need to worry. It was just like what it was; once you learn, you never forget. how's that for a self-referential cliche?

The ride took us under the Santa Monica pier where I could hear the old boards creeking under the weight of an army of tourists. Then, it was onward to Venice beach where the omnipresent rollerblading Arab played his Eddie Van Halen red and white target design guitar, noisily serenading any interested and uninterested party. Kirsten and I were asked twice if we could help feed the children. Twice we had to decline to help, and therefore, twice we were asked if we had heard of Krishna. The days of the orange-robed, pony-tailed 'Hairy fishnuts' is gone. Your modern Krishna is adorned in normal casual atire. No incense salesmen they. Now they extract guilt with hungry children and quickly bludgeon you with their blue ogre-tit sucking god.* Yeah. I've heard of Krishna.

* That bit of esoterism brought to you by my recent visit to an Indian art exhibit at the LACMA where I also touched a Warhol.

Locked up the bikes in Venice. Ate some pizza. Fed some pigeons. The pigeons in L.A. are surly, impudent cousins of their mid-western flock. They look tough and haggard with a glint in their steely dark eyes defying you not to feed them.

Then, we were back on the bikes. A parrot perched on the handle bars of a passing bike squaked out a "hello," to us as if knowing we had been kind to his feathered brethren. Upon returning to Santa Monica, we again decided to lock up the bikes and head inland to the Third street Promenade. I recalled walking there two years back with Matt and Brittany and Stephanie on different occasions. Fond memories from a time plagued with sharp sorrow and depression. These are the kind of memories from a time like that we hope will remain.

Dusk was now approaching and a shared king-sized fish-n-chips at the King's head hit both Kirsten's and my spots. I found the service at the King's Head to be a bit perplexing. Two people, Kirsten and myself, had three servers: our Mexican water/busboy, our British order taker who also came round to ask if everything was 'quite satisfactory,' and the British waitress who brought our dinner to the table. Why is this perplexing? The tip, my brothers and sisters, the tip. Is the tip split three ways? And if so, what percentage goes where? I mean, in terms of actually accomodating us, the Mexican water boy did far more than the British serving wenches. Our water boy brought us our water, refilled our glasses promptly, asked Kirsten if she needed more hot water for her tea, and removed our sullied wares upon completion of our meal. Surely, I couldn't allow this diligent, attentive worker to go unrewarded. Nor did I desire to disturb protocol by tipping him directly. So...well, I guess I overtipped at approximately 33.3% of the bill. Irksome, really, especially for the unemployed.

The whole situation smacked of British imperialism. The white, proper British veneer taking credit for the hard work and toil of the subjugated races. The bartenders: white and British. The hosts: white and British. The wait staff: white and British. But behind it all, in the kitchen, where efficiency and endurance, combined with the ability to take a lot of shit all come together, we find the Mexicans. I saw it. They cook, wash the dishes, prep the food, take out the trash, mop floors, wipe down tables, keep the restrooms clean, and receive no credit.

After pretty much forgetting about race relations and imperial restaurants, Kirsten and I leisurely strolled back down to the beach and our bikes. Enroute we encountered the most domestic squirrel I'd ever born witness to. She looked preggers with little squirrel teats engorged, standing up on her hind legs to nibble a long tick of stale bread straight from a man's hand. Yeah. It's fascinating, I know.

Too much rambling for one evening. I have an interview to get to tomorrow. I have a short story to write tomorrow so there will be no update unless I decide to throw the rough draft of the story on here, which I doubt. And besides, it's the weekend anyway. Not that the weekend means too much to me. Did I mention I'm unemployed?

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