Sitting In The Waiting Room.

I am a patient boy. I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait. My hair is still wet, resting politely on my two shoulders. For warmth is a soft burgundy sweater I wear for Christmas, given to me by my mom and dad. All of my grandparents are dead, resting silently on the clouds. I'm sitting on a hole that grows deeper and deeper with each day. Decomposing foam. I should either get it fixed or cover it with silver duct tape. It's dark outside and I'm driving down Vermont, headed toward Hollywood Boulevard, a street I've learned to hate. At least it's better than Wilshire. Mexican roads. Going to a party that's leading up to one of those big music awards shows. Starts with a "G" and ends with an "s." You know the one of which I speak. My fading Jaguar-Racing-Green truck doesn't have a radio. Well, it does, but music doesn't speak from its dash; only talk radio, which can sometimes be annoying during a Friday evening on the town. As usual, I use my iPod to illegally listen to music while I steer. Peeking up every second or two, I scroll through the backlit-blue screen of my white music box. I arrive at Fugazi, a Washington, D.C., outfit I didn't expect to listen to, but thought would be a nice change of pace from my usual ballads of depression and assaulting electro-punk thrashes. Fugazi: "13 Songs." The one with the red cover; black writing. The rolling muted bass takes me back to the summer of 2003. Writing in the sprial green notebook about those "authentic Armenian eyes." The ones that have since found love and marriage in France, by way of Los Angeles. I'm on Sixth Street in New York City. Manhattan. The wet sidewalks smell of garbage roasting in the sun. East Village monkey bars found in Tompkins Square Park by the basketball courts, across the street from the bakery where by the night's twinkle veggie burgers are cooked and sealed, and by day wedding cakes are manufactured for a little extra cash. That shithole Cherry Tavern down the street. Little India, they call it. Thin fluorescent bulbs highlight the doorway. Only $5 for a shot of Montezuma Gold Tequila and a cool can of Tecate, with a lime. "Waiting Room." Whiskey and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Oh, the memories. But I won't forget that song, or the jukebox from which it came -- ever. And I'll remember forever that evening in the dive of all dives. I seem to recall a cute, petite bartendress with a nice ass. Isn't that right, Herb? But I wouldn't live through it again, man. Not in a million fuckin' years. Can't place a price tag on nostalgia, can you? Function is the key, and that's hard to do after three Red Bull and Vodkas.