powered by SignMyGuestbook.com

rue-madame's Diaryland Diary



I’ve been working a lot lately, and today I have some time to breathe.

The friend with whom I’m collaborating on a book was actually down here from San Francisco, and that was fun. We ate and drank, went to a photography opening at Bergamot Station, ate and drank some more, and spent a little bit of time designing and talking about the book. I can’t believe we didn’t shop! Usually when we hang out, there’s a least one full day of doing the stores (yet another French expression that I can’t seem to shake.) We did, however, trek to Long Beach for the flea market on Sunday. I got a white ceramic happy Buddha (with a Benihana stamp on his ass,) Douglas got a tray and a knife, and Terence scored a “coffee maker.”

“Coffee maker” is in quotes because in point of fact, it is an espresso machine. But whenever Terence is at a swap meet or a flea market or in a thrift store, he calls espresso machines either “coffee makers” or “coffee pots” so as not to reveal that he knows what he’s talking about. In other words, he plays real dumb. This is how he’s amassed a collection of espresso machines--some valuable, most not--that he likes to display, use and tinker with. The machine that we use on a daily basis is another garage sale “coffee maker” that Terence paid $15 for. He knew it was an expensive model, and didn’t bother bargaining with the vendor. Of course, the espresso machine was pretty fucked up and corroded, and was missing a bunch of parts, so Terence had to spend another $200 getting it repaired and cleaned at this tiny little shop in North Beach. The La Pavoni europiccola chrome model espresso machine, brand new, costs $500.

The “coffee maker” that he bought yesterday is another europiccola, only this one is brass and sells for between $700 and $800. Not a bad deal I’d say. I have no idea how much it is going to cost to get it repaired, but I have a feeling that when we go up to San Francisco in October, the little espresso shop in North Beach will be on the itinerary.

The one semi-glamorous thing we attempted to do this weekend was have a drink at The Standard downtown. What a cliché. There’s the velvet rope, the bouncer with the headset, the hand waving and “be right with you folks” and “just another few minutes” and a handful of suckers waiting in line. For a bar. That wants to be a club. At a hotel. In a deserted part of LA. Does anyone else out there think this is ridiculous? We ditched the velvet rope, and just walked around to the front of the hotel, walked through the lobby, peeked in some of the public rooms, checked out the Snowcrash-designed cafe, sat in the fire/conversation pit for a spell, then left by crossing the velvet rope from the inside, and waving bye-bye to the bouncer. I understand using the exclusivity ruse to attract people and make them feel special and unique, but frankly, Andre Balazs can kiss my ass. I went, instead, to Max’s on Fairfax, drank a delicious concoction called a Cream Soda (vanilla stoli, ginger ale and crushed fresh mint... very refreshing!) and rocked out to London Calling.

Today I had yoga for the first time since last Tuesday and I felt like an old, broken down mule. Jumping from standing forward bend to chataranga made me want to hurl. I guess this is the humility part of the lesson.

3:23 p.m. - 2002-09-16



previous - next

latest entry

about me





roll the dice

other diaries: