A Nightly Walk Home: Tales From Koreatown.

I truly hate the summer heat, when I walk into my messy, bare-walled apartment to find a fiery wave of air rushing toward me, worse than that of the L.A. rush-hour traffic on the mighty 101. It has been bottled in all day, and even the cracked windows don't allow for ventilation against the intoxicating light. My lovely shoebox of a home, with CDs and magazines scattered about, wrinkled clothes strewn here and there, and a neglected acoustic guitar with a missing D string rests against the arm of my uncomfortable couch. We had some good times, my friend, didn't we? Oh, those forgotten songs. My bed comes out from the wall; the baby-blue sheets are dangling halfway to the ground. Click on the "ovulating" fan to provide refreshing relief. It does nothing but tease moist skin with stints of semi-cool, repurposed air.

On this evening I park my car in the gated lot where I pay $60 per month to use, walk down the sidewalk, past the abortion clinic where the ghost of a cold-eyed silent man in a straw hat stands in protest every morning handing out pamphlets in a useless attempt to save the lives of unborn children, and reach the crosswalk that never allows me to cross. I make a diagonal dart to the convenient store where I only spend money on overpriced plastic bottles of Diet Coke. I stand patiently in line as a Korean couple ahead of me buys lottery tickets. I grow impatient waiting for fools who dream of unattainable riches. But I smile politely and quickly pay for my chemicals and caffeine before walking out into the pleasant breeze.

From the opposite side of the road I catch a glimpse of a man and woman standing near my apartment complex entrance. The woman is attractive with wavy hair, and I pay no attention to the man. By now, sadly, I've forgotten the loveliness of her face. I keep my head down, key in hand, and walk toward the locked door. "I love the way you walk," she says with sharp words aimed toward my direction. I give her a questioning look and reply, "You like the way I walk?" From there I remember nothing, other than saying, "thanks," and quickly moving on. She had a sassy way about her, so I receive the comment as sarcasm. I don't know who she is, and I'm not sure I want to. It's likely this mystery mistress lives within the confines of my own building and secretly spies on me as I depart from work every morning, peeking through her blinds or shaded screen door. I doubt I'll ever know.

Now I sit and write, endlessly delaying. Rest has become nothing more than a dream.

This 99 cent candle I bought a week ago is almost finished. I enjoy using matches to light it. And after I watch the thin white smoke gently swirl away from the now-useless matchstick, I set it down on the fake wooden table. Its purpose has been served.

The Lonely Words Always Stand Alone.

Listening to music in paranoia is never a good thing, but what could be greater than Cat Power performing on Austin City Limits? I'll tell you, if you'd like to know. It's her dance moves. Walk like an Egyptian. And if there's one thing I've learned in this half-century of mine, it's that there's never a bad time for a cup of coffee. One more thing, dear friends -- never trust a blonde boy wearing a black Public Enemy T-shirt with white bolded letters. I'm almost positive that nothing good can come out of a situation like that, especially if he's standing on a street corner alone after midnight wearing a baseball cap. It doesn't matter what day it happens to be, just trust me.

I was at Coachella the other day and guess who I saw? No, you wouldn't believe. I was standing in a sea of people, watching Amy Winehouse perform while holding a little red plastic cup, nervously sipping Tanqueray between songs. She's quite small and annoyingly thin. Well, I looked to my left, past the attractive bohemian girl sitting alone on the grass in the 100-plus degree Indio heat, and saw Ron Jeremy, the porn star with a moustache. Some fucking idiot stopped Mr. Jeremy in his tracks to take a posed, hi-resolution digitalized photo. The show was ruined for me. I hate big audiences. But I'm sad to report this is the second time I've seen Jeremy out and about in the L.A. scene. The first moment I caught a glimpse was while waiting for a bus to take me and a co-worker to the Playboy Mansion. But that's another story altogether. Maybe I will tell it some other time, perhaps.

Those birds never stop chirping, even after dark, when the monstrous helicopters sometimes roar over my rooftop. It's in the middle of the night, and I feel like I'm sleeping in the dewy South American rainforest. Do you ever feel like opening your busted window and yelling at the world in anger? I don't. What right do birds have chirping while I'm trying to get some rest? Silence, it's never enough. I wouldn't go insane without the annoyances. But if I could never listen to music again, I'm not sure what I'd do. Maybe die. There would be no other point to live. The feeling it brings cannot be replaced. I live adjacent to a man who never sleeps. He does nothing but toss and turn in his bed. Endless noise. I can hear every movement of his mattress through my paper thin walls. I can only imagine what peculiar sounds he hears from me, probably nothing. I'm silent like a blue-belly lizard, heavenly roasting on a stucco wall in the dead of the summer sun.

I never used to trust Canadians, but that all changed last weekend. It sometimes happens when trusting eyes hit you. And it doesn't hurt if those eyes belong to curiously smiling lips that have good taste in music. That's all I have to say about that, other than a single moment can sometimes change everything. But if that moment isn't realized, which so often seems to be the case, then there's no point in having placed your trust in those eastern Canadian eyes. I'm still waiting for my gift, and thanks for the free ice cream.