The quality of my life that I have most appreciated is surrealism. I don’t know if it was the proper amount of drugs at various points in my life that altered my chemistry in such a way as to cause my perception to be a bit dreamy, or if perhaps it’s just natural and everyone experiences life this way, but much of my life has had a dreamlike vibe. Perhaps it has something to do with the way my memory is wired and it’s only in retrospect that situations have that romantic effect. Maybe it is a result of being filled with the spirit at such an early age. Regardless of the correct theory, or combination thereof, I enjoy it for the most part. Probably the worst part of it has been when the darkness used to creep around the edges and I would disappear,.. but after years of practice, I even learned to enjoy that. It seems as if that experience is behind me. A writer of some notoriety was going to be doing a reading at a legendary rock and roll room on the strip. It used to be legendary, but commercialism and greed has sucked most of the spirit right out of the room. I’ve been there many times and sought Jim’s ghost only to realize that he doesn’t haunt there anymore. Jimi used to get his dick sucked under the tables here. I think Jimmy did, too. Hell, I think everyone did back in its heyday. But there’s not dick-sucking going on these days. I can’t even stand against the stairs without getting hassled by security. Freedom was chased out by fire codes. Beer comes in plastic cups because no one can be trusted with bottles. Thirty years ago, they’d probably have hugged me at the door,.. now they frisk me. But I’ve been here many times before and I know the drill. We’re allowed in after they go through her purse and before I can adjust to the room, I’m told not to stand in the walkway. We go over by the bar to stand as all of the rude people with drinks talk loudly while the guy on stage tries to read. I walk over by the stairs to get away from the noise and try to listen. That’s when I’m told not to stand by the stairs, so I step up to the crowd surrounding the stage. I don’t like my back exposed like that, so decide to scout out upstairs. There’s a table, so I wave her up. We sit against the back wall as the band starts to take the stage. I’m not sure why there’s a band tonight. It’s a bunch of kids and it’s too loud before they even get started. I get a napkin and fashion some earplugs for us. I’m not about to go deaf for this. I guess I’m too old. I didn’t like this kind of music when it came out in the eighties and I can’t imagine anyone will these days. But again I’m surprised and the kids are eating it up. How many generations after metal is this? I want to run home and spin my vinyl of “Hell Bent for Leather” to cleanse my soul. The set ends and before the band leaves the stage, on walks the writer we’ve come to see. He asks if someone in the audience has a book. It’s handed to him and he begins to read. It’s very measured and monotone. The band plays some mellow metal in the background and images flip on the screen behind them. His subject seems to be gun control out of control, rape and thoughts of vengeance. The photos behind are of guns and gang images. He finishes the read and the band goes away. He asks if anyone has any questions and he’s asked why people are fucked up in L.A… if he’s influenced by poetry… who his favorite writer is… I wanted to ask if he was okay? If he’s still sober. She wanted me to ask how Oprah is. There are times I’ll shout out, but I decided to stay quiet. It was over. He was done. The band was coming back and we needed to leave. We felt a little gypped, but it was free and fun to get out. He was making his way from the stage over to the booths where the TV star from Dallas was sitting earlier. People were mobbing him, wanting him to sign their books. I had a CD and decided to give it to him. He had said earlier that he liked music, so I said “James, it’s for you” and sat it on the table. He looked at me and we walked off. His assistant was taking it off the table and putting it with his souvenirs. We walked up the strip and browsed the mainstream sex shop. I had encountered two famous writers that evening… On our way over earlier this evening, we were stopping for coffee. I had to make a left off of Wilshire onto a side-street in order to avoid traffic and this guy seemed a bit confused about crossing the street. He stopped on the corner and then when I began to turn he entered the crosswalk, taking his time, looking at the car beside him and then he stops and looks at me. I’m waiting for him to go and trying to keep an eye on traffic coming towards me. “Fucking idiot”, I say and he finally gets out of the street. “Do you know who that was”, I ask her? I tell her who it looked like to me and she was asking why he would be walking around here. She often forgets where we live. Those people have houses around here. We walked into the back door and got in line as he walked in the front. I took a good look at him and was pretty damn sure he was who I thought he was. This guy has written extensively about metaphysics and spirituality, health… he is certainly considered a guru by many. He sits down with his cup as they prepare our drinks. She asks me if I’m going to ask him. Normally I wouldn’t, but I wanted to know if it was him or just someone who looked similar. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you, but you look extremely familiar to me. Do I know you?” “I’m a writer.” I say his name and he says “yes”. I introduce myself and tell him it’s a pleasure to meet him. I get my drink and we walk by him on our way out. “Have a nice evening”, I say. Diamond encrusted glasses and Seven jeans. I didn’t give him a CD… I only had one with me and had planned on giving it to the to the writer that was reading later…