February 2004 – Page 6 – WIL WHEATON dot NET

I keep hearing about this new radio station, INDIE 103.1. It’s supposed to be giving KROQ a run for its money, but we can’t hear it in the 626. I haven’t tuned in to regular radio, other than NPR or KFWB, since I got XM last year, but I had to go from the 626 out to the 310 last Wednesday, and I thought I’d listen to KROQ and INDIE, and write up a comparison of the two.
Since I’m writing this for blogging.la, I figured it would be extra “LA” of me to bring my iBook over to Starbucks to write it up. There are a half dozen people here with me, three of them also on laptops, one of them this totally insane homeless guy who I see wandering around this area all the time. A few weeks ago, Anne and I were walking out of a restaurant, and he yelled something at her about how he was too evil for her food.
I’m a little pissed that the homeless guy is filling an entire corner of the place with the stink of greasy hair and dirt, and he’s also in the most comfortable chair, in the corner that gets the best sun, where I was hoping to sit today.
Then I sip my Sumatra, take a bite of my muffin, realize that my laptop cost more than this guy will see in a year, and sit in the familiarity of Liberal Guilt™.
Aimee Mann sings “Save Me,” (the only thing about Magnoila that I didn’t totally hate), two men (possibly lovers, or on their way to being ex-lovers) sit silently at a table between me and stinky homeless guy and stare into their lattes. One of them keeps looking at me, and it makes me self-conscious. Is he looking at me because he thinks he knows me? Because he’s seen me on TV? Because, in my Kung Fu Records T-shirt, worn over my Hanes thermal shirt, Chuck Taylors and carefully mussed hair I look sexy and alluring? I self-consciously twist my wedding ring around my finger.
A few moments pass and they leave. It’s weird. They both stand up at exactly the same moment, without a word, as if they’ve shared some silent communication that only lovers can understand. As they walk out the door, a woman storms in past them, yelling into her cell phone. ” . . . oblem, Jerry! You have an obligation to –”
Everyone except Stinky looks up at her, and she lowers her voice. “Well, I’m not going to discuss this with you here!” she says, and slams the phone shut.
She forces a smile and walks to the counter, where she places an order in a quiet, barely-controlled voice that I can’t hear.
Stinky coughs, which quickly turns into a violent hacking. A woman in line puts a protective arm around her young child, and tells him not to stare. Stinky gets up, and staggers outside. He doesn’t return, and I think about moving to his / my chair, but the stink still hangs over that corner. I stay where I am. A man in a tweedy jacket, cotton shirt and bright blue tie sits down next to me, and starts working on a crossword puzzle from the paper. I click click clack on my iBook:
A white van pulled out ahead of me right before the 110. I grew up watching CHiPs, so white vans terrify me: each one contains a potential kidnapper, and at any moment, the back doors could explode open and release a motorcycle rider who will create, and then escape unharmed from, a 50 car pile up.
I write for close to 30 minutes before I look up, and realize that Tweedy Jacket has fallen asleep. His chin sits heavily upon his chest, and his hands are folded in his lap. Why did this guy come to Starbucks to fall asleep over his partially-completed Crossword?
I study him, trying to put together an interesting character background. Is he a salesman? Maybe from a nearby furniture store? Over here on his lunch break. He didn’t make his sales quota last month, and February is his last chance to get some blue boxes filled in next to his name on the white board that surely hangs in some back room. Does he ever finish the crossword? Sometimes. It’s a small victory for him, but one he relishes. Suddenly, his head POPS UP! He looks straight at me with sleep-clouded eyes. They are bright blue, and resigned. My own eyes dart down to his puzzle, and back to my own table. When I steal another glance, one hand cups his chin, while the other taps his pen.
A few minutes later, his digital watch chirps twice to mark the top of the hour. He looks down at it, sighs heavily, and carefully folds his puzzle. He puts it in a pocket inside his jacket, and slowly walks out the door.
I write for another twenty minutes before I get stuck. I can’t recall how to spell “Yahtzee.” Is it Yahtzee? Yachtzee? Yhatzee? I don’t have T*Mobile, so I can’t hit the Internet to find out. I’ll have to trust my instincts: “Yahtzee” looks the least wrong, so I’ll go with that:
"Where it's at! I've got two turntables and a microphone . . . " Oh, I see that we're flashing back all the way to the halcyon days of 1996. This is my biggest complaint with KROQ's whole "Flashback" criteria: seven years old does not a flashback make, you guys. Does this mean that, when the summer rolls around, we'll be flashing back to the acoustic version of Staind's Outside? I looked down at the radio, and saw that Fred on XM 44 was playing Joy Division's Twenty-four. Yahtzee! ADVANTAGE: XM.
It’s good that I don’t have Internet here. Internet has been a HUGE distraction recently, and I haven’t had the self-discipline to just focus, write, and turn it off. Fark, Metafilter, and Cursor beckon like Sirens.
A couple in their mid-30s sits down in Stinky’s chair, which I realize now is a love seat. They exude sexual energy. They must be new to each other. There’s no way they’re having an affair — they’re far too brazen for that — but they clearly can’t wait to get their clothes off. I’m am violently jealous of their passion for one another, and it derails my ability to write.
I sit here and drink my coffee, which is getting cold and bitter(how appropriate). A Starbucks guy runs a sweeper across the floor around me, and beneath my feet.
“Are you a writer?” he asks.
“I hope so,” I tell him. He sort of recoils from me, and I feel bad. It’s not his fault that I haven’t written anything in over a week. It’s not his fault my sweet and kind 12 year-old stepson has been replaced with a surly, disrespectful podperson. It’s not his fault that this couple’s wonderful, supernova passion for each other is what I want and lack more than anything else on earth. Maybe it’s the grey sky, the cold February day, or Stinky stinking up my chair . . . but I can’t feel passion for anything these days. I am a man in his thirties, snapping at a boy in his twenties, because I used to be him.
“I mean . . . I’m trying. I’ve done some good stuff in the past, but right now I’m in a bit of a rut.” I say.
“Oh, well, I hope you find your way out,” he says, kindly. No harm, no foul.
We-Can’t-Wait-To-Fuck get up. She’s flushed, and he’s grinning. They hurriedly gather up their cups, and slam dunk them into the trash on their way out.
I crumple up my muffin bag, and free throw it into the trash can. It sails through the air, trailing crumbs, and hits the side. It skips into the corner, past the door. I pick it up, and see that We-Can’t-Wait-To-Fuck are standing by his car. I know it’s his because he’s leaning against the driver’s door, and she’s pressed up against him. They’re making out, right there in the parking lot, with the reckless abandon that blind passion brings to a couple.
Gods, I fucking hate them.
No I don’t. I hate myself. I hate this rut. I need to warm up my coffee.
I give the Barista a dollar. She fills up my cup and drops two quarters into my hand. I use the tips of my fingers to flip them over: Vermont and Maryland. I drop them into the plexiglass tip box with a flourish, and return to my table.
I write for about 10 minutes, but it’s forced. I’ve hit my Creative Wall for today, ten minutes short of my usual two hour cutoff. I save my work, close up my iBook, sit down in Stinky’s chair. My chair.
My coffee tastes weak, bitter, and familiar.