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Bloody Hell Sunday
Sunday, December 19, 2021
My depression is starting to bore me. I keep waving my arms above my head to ward off the dark cloud that seems to be around me at all times. I’m actually a bit shocked that others don’t see this cloud. Perhaps they are just being polite. Or maybe they are mistaking it as my hat. If you’re looking at me from a great distance, one may think it's a hat.
Since my days are numbered why not go to the most expensive restaurant in town. I notice that food or beverages doesn’t have any taste anymore. Is it just me, or is it just a total texture thing now? Visually, seeing the food in front of my face makes me happy, but once I put the ingredients in my mouth, it is almost a crushing disappointment. One would think that a beautiful warm piece of apple pie from here would taste what it looks like. But it seems to be cardboard, and not good tasting cardboard mind you. The only taste I have in my mouth is for the pretty waitress who served me a vodka dry martini with olive. The thought of her actually makes me feel drunk, where the drink itself, is basically nothing. No effect on me at all. It is like I have a fortification within me, and nothing gets through the wall. The only thing that gives me any pleasure is the thought of a glory hole in this wall. Alas, it is nothing, just a thought.
After dinner, I wander out to Park and Sunset Blvd. I waited for the 603 line to take me home on the corner of Alvarado and Sunset. It seems like any other evening in my life. It is very hard to see the stars from the bus stop, oh I don’t know why? Perhaps due to the street and building lighting. Then I remember, there are no stars when there are clouds. My bus approaches and I get in. I use my TAP card, and go sit in the back of the bus by the window.
I like to watch the buildings and structures go by as the bus moves forward. The one thing I have noticed is the difference between the Dov Charney billboards and the one’s after he was fired from his company “American Apparel.” They are still sexually enticing, but not as nasty and dirty as under his personal supervision. I often believed that he himself took these photographs of slightly underage girls, perhaps in a studio, but in my mind, they are taken in his home. The awfulness of his vision of young girls wearing his clothing is shameful. Yet, that is why I was attracted to his images on the billboard in the first place. Now, they sort of look like his work, but declawed to a certain degree. Perhaps it's justice or karma of some sort. In all honesty, he sort of ripped the images of Terry Richardson's portraits of women. That is the nature of the advertising world. One takes an image from another place, and just put your brand on it. It’s like cattle rustling in the wild west. You find a cow roaming freely, and you capture it, and put a hot brand on its skin. You now own the property that is branded. Charney’s aesthetic or brand image is totally immoral, which a dirty image should always achieve to be as -something shameful. Oddly enough, it is his images of women that break through my heavy fog that encompasses me.
The woman on the billboard disappears, and then it’s one warehouse after another. The landscape becomes blank, which is dangerous, because this is where I project the images from my head onto the dark landscape. Dark feelings turned into abstract shapes. The warmth of the bus, just reminds one how cold it is outside the vehicle. I leave the bus, turn my collar up and walk to the house. I enter and think “ It’s a Sunday, like all other Sundays. Oh bloody hell Sunday. ”