Didn't I Know You Once?
I've lived in L.A. on and off for 42 years...as I'm 42. In that time, I've met lots and lots of people. Most passed through my life quickly and I never saw them again, or did I? Some were friends, some were acquaintances, co-workers, dates...people I saw at clubs and never talked to, people from school, rollerbladers I saw on the bike path at the beach every day about 20 years ago...you get the idea.
I'm at Starbucks, Hollywood and Highland, where the Kodak Theater is, the nosebleedingly lofty airplane hangar that hosts the Academy Awards, among other things. Anyway, an attractive woman is sitting before me, chatting with friends. She's very "Hollywood" looking; thin with the right jeans and a little appropriate bling, her Berkin (obscenely expensive purse, only visible to the trained eye) tossed haphazardly on the concrete below her faux wooden deck hair, courtesy of the opressive coffee giant.
She's familiar. I've seen her. But where? This happens all the time. Finally, I figure it out. She went clubbing at the same places I did many years ago. A split screen of the attractive woman at the precipus of her journey in to the land of haggard with the fresh faced young girl with stars on springs attached to plastic clips in her hair, more stairs delicately painted on her face. The smile and the laughing eyes are the same, although she's a woman now. Our weekly ritual of landing at Gower Gulch Denny's brought us into contact for probably a fleeting 10 or 20 words every week or two and we moved in the same circle of ritual. She's taken good care of herself, glancing back at me. I'm sure she doesn't recognize me, she probably thinks I'm checking her out. But I remember her even if she doesn't remember me. And I love that she just called it "Starfucks." Her European accent has faded, only traces of it when she talks and laughs at the same time. She was a nice girl, I figured too nice to hang out with us. I think she gave me her number once, with stars of course. Clubs and raves, she smiled at me.
Today was a bonanza. Not only my peripheral European. As I guzzled coffee so strong it could remove roof tar, I saw a group of 3 weathered queens. More familiar faces and I know from long ago. I'm not sure from where, I'll work on it. They didn't age well. I wonder if they'd say the same of me. I'm amazed they're still running around together after all these years. I remember one liked me. But from where? This happens all the time and it's maddening.
All over Los Angeles I see these faces, ones from the past. Occasionally one will look back with a "don't I know him...?" Most don't. I'm unrecognizable from the old days unless someone is really skilled at facial recognition or something like that.
I remember people who don't remember me. It's not a good bolster for self-esteem but there it is, one of my gifts, more like a curse. It either implies that they were more interesting than I was, I paid closer attention than they did, or I simply have a better memory. Maybe they had more going on and didn't clutter their brains with such useless crap.
On the other hand, there's something comforting in seeing these living ghosts of the past. It offers legitimate proof that we were all really there.
I'm at Starbucks, Hollywood and Highland, where the Kodak Theater is, the nosebleedingly lofty airplane hangar that hosts the Academy Awards, among other things. Anyway, an attractive woman is sitting before me, chatting with friends. She's very "Hollywood" looking; thin with the right jeans and a little appropriate bling, her Berkin (obscenely expensive purse, only visible to the trained eye) tossed haphazardly on the concrete below her faux wooden deck hair, courtesy of the opressive coffee giant.
She's familiar. I've seen her. But where? This happens all the time. Finally, I figure it out. She went clubbing at the same places I did many years ago. A split screen of the attractive woman at the precipus of her journey in to the land of haggard with the fresh faced young girl with stars on springs attached to plastic clips in her hair, more stairs delicately painted on her face. The smile and the laughing eyes are the same, although she's a woman now. Our weekly ritual of landing at Gower Gulch Denny's brought us into contact for probably a fleeting 10 or 20 words every week or two and we moved in the same circle of ritual. She's taken good care of herself, glancing back at me. I'm sure she doesn't recognize me, she probably thinks I'm checking her out. But I remember her even if she doesn't remember me. And I love that she just called it "Starfucks." Her European accent has faded, only traces of it when she talks and laughs at the same time. She was a nice girl, I figured too nice to hang out with us. I think she gave me her number once, with stars of course. Clubs and raves, she smiled at me.
Today was a bonanza. Not only my peripheral European. As I guzzled coffee so strong it could remove roof tar, I saw a group of 3 weathered queens. More familiar faces and I know from long ago. I'm not sure from where, I'll work on it. They didn't age well. I wonder if they'd say the same of me. I'm amazed they're still running around together after all these years. I remember one liked me. But from where? This happens all the time and it's maddening.
All over Los Angeles I see these faces, ones from the past. Occasionally one will look back with a "don't I know him...?" Most don't. I'm unrecognizable from the old days unless someone is really skilled at facial recognition or something like that.
I remember people who don't remember me. It's not a good bolster for self-esteem but there it is, one of my gifts, more like a curse. It either implies that they were more interesting than I was, I paid closer attention than they did, or I simply have a better memory. Maybe they had more going on and didn't clutter their brains with such useless crap.
On the other hand, there's something comforting in seeing these living ghosts of the past. It offers legitimate proof that we were all really there.
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