I think I’m dying. I was gonna continue writing about the movie, Lost in Translation, but I’m just too exhausted. I wanna see a movie every now and then. I wanna see my football game. But the price I have to pay–spending virtually the rest of the entire weekend, no, the entire week dedicated ONLY to grading, class prep, committee work, administrative work–is killing me. One of the things I enjoy is cooking, and I used to find time on the weekend to do that. Not only does it give Musubi-chan a break, its kinda therapeutic for me. But I haven’t cooked anything since the school has started. Of course, Musubi-chan hasn’t complained. She’s an angel… or is it she doesn’t like my cooking? Hmm…
Gawd, I don’t even have time to Xanga! How pathetic is that. I wasn’t able to go to the many sites I read regularly and felt rather guilty, so I just spent the last hour and half visiting and commenting…. Whew! If I missed you, don’t worry, I’ll catch you next time.
I need to chill. I should take up Nefarious’ suggestion to write about sstrip bars, but in all honesty, I’ve nevver been… What is a lap dance? I here its the nasty, nasty, but I don’t know the exactly what activity is taking place. I guess it’s not one of the more important things in life, but I here the phrase so often on TV, I’m just curious. I have, however, seen a strip show, and I must admit, that it was… interesting.
But first, some background…
At the age of 17, when I was ditching high school, and being your typical good-for-nothin’ GLOB (good little Oriental boy), I would walk around the seedier streets of downtown LA. Not that I consciously sought this area, but it was an area I passed through everyday from school on the westside on my way to work in J-town. For those of you familiar with LA, this would be an area between 3rd and 6th and Main and Hill. There were the ubiquitous adult book stores, and I would wander in pretending to be lost. Sometimes, the proprietor would ask me for ID, and he’d chase me out when I told him I had none. But more often than not, a flunky would be at the main desk and he never cared who came in, as long as they looked like they could afford something. Oh my, the variety was amazing. Heretofore, being only exposed to the soft porn of Playboy, hardcore had a distinct allure to a young trying to come to terms with a libido that was frowing exponentially. I was not a virgin at this age, but I was naive and unsure of the techniques of sex. The stories I heard from older guys were intriguing, but they always seemed to lack the specifics–it now occurs to me that they were probably as clueless as I was. But the hardcore magazines were eye opening. My mind would race with each magazine, with every turn of the page.
“Wow, you mean you can do it standing?”
“Man, doesn’t that hurt?”
“No way, that fits.”
When I left the store–usually without a plain brown paper bag tucked underneath my arm–and head for the bus stop to take me to work, I would pass a place that always seemed to call me like a siren, the Pussycat Theater. It was on Hill about a block and a half from the Biltmore Hotel. Now this isn’t the famous theater in Hollywood; it was its poor step-sister in downtown LA. It was rundown and always had down-and-out looking people hanging around the front. But for me it was different. With titles like “Debbie Does Dallas” and stars such as Seka and John Holmes, it was a gleaming citadel of potential information, the best and worst of sex education, and like a magnet it pulled me, inviting me in. But as a punk kid with little experience, I was embarrassed. I mean, geez, going into an adult bookstore was daring enough for me. But I just had to see for myself, maybe next time. I have to go to work. No time. Yeah, next time. Maybe next time. Always next time.