2003-07-16 - 10:06 p.m.

I posted this stuff, then deleted the post because I was embarrassed by my jealousy over the 12-years-ago boyfriend's culinary career (see bullet three). Jealousy is embarrassing.

� The Nick Drake documentary last Thursday was pretty great. [I�m compelled to mention that Giovanni Ribisi sat behind Erik. I see him and Juliette Lewis everywhere.] I didn�t realize the reason I�ve never seen any footage of Nick Drake is that there isn�t any. So, the 48-minute film consisted of photos of Nick Drake and interviews with people who knew him. There was one part that really moved me: Nick Drake�s sister played a cassette tape of their mother playing (piano) and singing a song she�d written. It was beautiful. A perfect blend of melancholic and hopeful chords (just what I love). His sister commented on how she thought their mother�s songwriting had had a big influence on him. And then there was a poem she�d written called "The Shell". Several tears rolled down my face as his sister read it. I wish I�d had a notepad to scribble some of it down. It was so stirring, and it tied in with the movie�s title: A Skin Too Few. (Is "skin too few" a Britishism for "skin too thin"?)

� Speaking of beautiful poems, some ex-Christian ex-rock stars came over to our apartment on Friday night. They had just played at a big Christian music festival in the midwest. These guys were full of disturbing stories about the Christian marketplace. The Christian world is pretty weird, and I was surprised by deep wells of cynicism in my cloudy agnostic heart. The most peculiar thing they reported was some lady who calls herself The Pink Nun and travels around preaching to young ladies to "save themselves" for marriage. Her poem, Purity Pride, is really special.

� Speaking of how I never really adhered to Purity Pride, I ran into the object of my first big love affair/heartbreak. He was eating at the crepe place on 2nd Street in Belmont Shore with his wife and another couple. I was his groupie at age 14. He was my brother�s friend and played drums in a band that I worshipped. Anyway, he spotted me the other morning, so we talked. He went to culinary school, worked for several years as the Executive Chef at a swanky restaurant, and is now a personal chef for some wealthy owner of a big clothing company. I had a really immature reaction when he told me all this. I felt like the Karma Police hadn�t dealt with him how I would�ve liked. I wanted to yell, "You fucker! You were awful to me! You broke my heart! I feel so dumb about what a na�ve little girl I was! You should be a salesman at Guitar Center or a dishwasher at Canter�s [a once rat-infested restaurant in L.A. where I once found a living fly in my Jell-O] or�something else not cool!" Again, I was surprised by my dark heart; I haven�t thought about him in years. In fact, the last time I thought about him was when my old band played with his old band at Spaceland. He (already married) was drunk and tried to kiss me. He�s so sleazy. Oh well, it was a million years ago.

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