I'm a dork; ask me how!
Apr. 1st, 2004 05:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabI had lunch with Ron Livingston today.
So it's another working day inCanada Hollywood, and I'm out with a fistful of resumes trying to seek my fortune in the retail industry. I've mocked up some very convincing retail and sales-type credits, some of which are true, some in which I was employed by either ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
helenish or wearemany, but that's a story for another day, and I got my one-free-resume-printout at the library, made half a dozen copies and started the long twilight walk up Vermont Ave. in Los Feliz.
Dropped off resumes right and left (ropo, the Skylight store cat's named Lucy!), and then, somewhere between X-LARGE and the movie theatre, the skies opened up and it started to rain. Which, while some might argue is to be expected in the month of February, is not a common occurence in the Southland, and, by the way, it's not February anymore, so I and my fellow travelers were caught off-guard and, to avoid the horrifying drizzle, raced immediately for shelter.
I ducked into Fred 62, armed only with the $20 I'd gotten at Amoeba this morning in exchange for ST:DS9 Season 7, and which, by all accounts, was already earmarked for rent. "I don't need lunch," I said, watching the rain streak the glass. "I'll just get a coke or something, sit and wait till the rain stops."
The booths were all occupied. I had my book (Earthquake Weather, by Tim Powers, for those keeping score, and 100 pages in so far, so good). There was one person at the counter, on the stool at the far end near the short-order window. Mr. rimshot Ron Livingston himself.
*guh*
I'm so good at this, you know, usually. I have a dozen stories of this type, vague star-crossings where I work my moxy mojo and keep my cool and have great encounters with my American idols. Those of you who know me know this, and you might as well just stop reading now, because boy howdy did I blow my streak.
It might be, as Patricia says, because Ron Livingston is my future husband, and I was therefore under abnormal pressure. But the long and the short of it's that I did not live up to my usual Sabbish standards, and therefore, I suck. *sigh*
Ron at the counter. A whole row of empty stools beside him. I saddled up, three stools away, and tried to be surreptitious about the fact that I was staring bald-faced at him with my jaw half open, drooling.
He's reading something that looks like nothing so much as a guide to the internal combustion engine. It's a stapled together pack of papers, with paragraph descriptions and mimeographed diagrams of the fig. a, fig. b sort. Go figure. He ordered a coke and a turkey burger. I got the fish sandwich.
And for the next FORTY FIVE MINUTES we sat there, no more than five feet apart from one another, acknowledging each other vaguely over the tops of our respective reading material the way two people each sitting alone at the counter in a diner have no choice but to acknowledge each other, and we NEVER EXCHANGED A SINGLE WORD.
*sigh*
He was wearing a tan corduroy jacket with sheepskin lining, jeans, brown motorcycle boots. He was wearing his caterpillar eyebrows and his upturned nose and his hair curled out from the rain in the beginnings of a scruffy jewfro. No glasses. No wedding ring.
He got a phone call halfway through the meal, someone named Bob quite possibly talking about a boat. When Ron spoke he sounded just like himself. His wallet stuck out of his ass jeans pocket, a leather checkbook-sized billfold with some tooling in a flowery design.
We'd each saved our pickle for last, and indulged in some simultaneous pickle crunching as outside the sun broke through the clouds and the waiter brought our checks. He left first. I came home to collapse on Patricia's bed and bemoan my fate, and the fact that I'd spent half my day's earnings on a fish sandwich and didn't get a phone number or even a handshake-and-introduction out of it.
Still, I was five feet away from him, alone, for forty five minutes, and we shared that special palpable bond that only parties of one reading in restaurants share with other parties of one reading in restaurants. I can still taste the pickle, which means somewhere in LA, he can still taste the pickle too.
[ETA, because it is important, and because you asked, What I Was Wearing: Coulda been worse. I was wearing my grey J Crew pants, the onesfuries has, with a black leather belt with steel eyelets. Gray camisole under a red/purple/orange/other red polyester buttondown shirt PTP gave me for my birthday, buttoned. Moss-green Nike's and a red and black striped hairband pushing my hair back into some sort of parody of the troll upsticking hair I'd woken up with, serves me right for going to bed with a wet head. But I was clean and nothing had any visible stains and I smelled vaguely like L'oreal after-haircolor conditioner, so. Coulda been a lot worse. Years ago, when I met the whole cast of the X-Files at a bar, the night Chris Owens shared his slice of pizza with me, the night I got so drunk I told Nick Lea he had eyes like stars, (to which he responded, "what the hell does that mean?" and I said, [Luz]"I have no idea!"[/Luz]) I was in sweaty corduroy box-moving unshowered regalia and an oversized men's shirt. That was about the lowest I go, so all things considered, the Ron-meeting garb was just dandy. Alas, it didn't do enough for my moxy, it'd seem.]
Did I let you down? Do you want to disown me? Do I have to turn in my badge and my gun? And what was that mimeographed manual all about, anyway? And who says it rains here in April?
So it's another working day in
helenish or wearemany, but that's a story for another day, and I got my one-free-resume-printout at the library, made half a dozen copies and started the long twilight walk up Vermont Ave. in Los Feliz.Dropped off resumes right and left (
ropo, the Skylight store cat's named Lucy!), and then, somewhere between X-LARGE and the movie theatre, the skies opened up and it started to rain. Which, while some might argue is to be expected in the month of February, is not a common occurence in the Southland, and, by the way, it's not February anymore, so I and my fellow travelers were caught off-guard and, to avoid the horrifying drizzle, raced immediately for shelter.I ducked into Fred 62, armed only with the $20 I'd gotten at Amoeba this morning in exchange for ST:DS9 Season 7, and which, by all accounts, was already earmarked for rent. "I don't need lunch," I said, watching the rain streak the glass. "I'll just get a coke or something, sit and wait till the rain stops."
The booths were all occupied. I had my book (Earthquake Weather, by Tim Powers, for those keeping score, and 100 pages in so far, so good). There was one person at the counter, on the stool at the far end near the short-order window. Mr. rimshot Ron Livingston himself.
*guh*
I'm so good at this, you know, usually. I have a dozen stories of this type, vague star-crossings where I work my moxy mojo and keep my cool and have great encounters with my American idols. Those of you who know me know this, and you might as well just stop reading now, because boy howdy did I blow my streak.
It might be, as Patricia says, because Ron Livingston is my future husband, and I was therefore under abnormal pressure. But the long and the short of it's that I did not live up to my usual Sabbish standards, and therefore, I suck. *sigh*
Ron at the counter. A whole row of empty stools beside him. I saddled up, three stools away, and tried to be surreptitious about the fact that I was staring bald-faced at him with my jaw half open, drooling.
He's reading something that looks like nothing so much as a guide to the internal combustion engine. It's a stapled together pack of papers, with paragraph descriptions and mimeographed diagrams of the fig. a, fig. b sort. Go figure. He ordered a coke and a turkey burger. I got the fish sandwich.
And for the next FORTY FIVE MINUTES we sat there, no more than five feet apart from one another, acknowledging each other vaguely over the tops of our respective reading material the way two people each sitting alone at the counter in a diner have no choice but to acknowledge each other, and we NEVER EXCHANGED A SINGLE WORD.
*sigh*
He was wearing a tan corduroy jacket with sheepskin lining, jeans, brown motorcycle boots. He was wearing his caterpillar eyebrows and his upturned nose and his hair curled out from the rain in the beginnings of a scruffy jewfro. No glasses. No wedding ring.
He got a phone call halfway through the meal, someone named Bob quite possibly talking about a boat. When Ron spoke he sounded just like himself. His wallet stuck out of his ass jeans pocket, a leather checkbook-sized billfold with some tooling in a flowery design.
We'd each saved our pickle for last, and indulged in some simultaneous pickle crunching as outside the sun broke through the clouds and the waiter brought our checks. He left first. I came home to collapse on Patricia's bed and bemoan my fate, and the fact that I'd spent half my day's earnings on a fish sandwich and didn't get a phone number or even a handshake-and-introduction out of it.
Still, I was five feet away from him, alone, for forty five minutes, and we shared that special palpable bond that only parties of one reading in restaurants share with other parties of one reading in restaurants. I can still taste the pickle, which means somewhere in LA, he can still taste the pickle too.
[ETA, because it is important, and because you asked, What I Was Wearing: Coulda been worse. I was wearing my grey J Crew pants, the ones
furies has, with a black leather belt with steel eyelets. Gray camisole under a red/purple/orange/other red polyester buttondown shirt PTP gave me for my birthday, buttoned. Moss-green Nike's and a red and black striped hairband pushing my hair back into some sort of parody of the troll upsticking hair I'd woken up with, serves me right for going to bed with a wet head. But I was clean and nothing had any visible stains and I smelled vaguely like L'oreal after-haircolor conditioner, so. Coulda been a lot worse. Years ago, when I met the whole cast of the X-Files at a bar, the night Chris Owens shared his slice of pizza with me, the night I got so drunk I told Nick Lea he had eyes like stars, (to which he responded, "what the hell does that mean?" and I said, [Luz]"I have no idea!"[/Luz]) I was in sweaty corduroy box-moving unshowered regalia and an oversized men's shirt. That was about the lowest I go, so all things considered, the Ron-meeting garb was just dandy. Alas, it didn't do enough for my moxy, it'd seem.]Did I let you down? Do you want to disown me? Do I have to turn in my badge and my gun? And what was that mimeographed manual all about, anyway? And who says it rains here in April?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 06:38 pm (UTC)Still, I am quite disappointed in myself.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 06:51 pm (UTC)PTP is good. Of course, you already had that conversation starter right there. "Hey look, here you are at Fred's reading some sort of boat engine manual."
Maybe you were made a bit giddy by his RonLivingstone-ness. I mean, he's what your friendster is looking for.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 06:56 pm (UTC)Nothing some healthy virile nurses couldn't cure. *g*
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 06:26 pm (UTC)Afterward: "Ohmygodguh you DID!!!"
Simultaneously eating pickles is enough to impress me, boy.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 06:28 pm (UTC)(Say it ain't so!)
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 06:37 pm (UTC)If I'd April Foolsed it, I'd've had a better story, with, you know, sex in. *g*
Simultaneous pickleage will have to suffice.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 07:00 pm (UTC)See, if that were me, I would've totally lost my guard and flipped out.
I'd be like "OMG BAND OF BROTHERS!" and it would've been downhill from there. So good for you.
BUT BAD FOR YOU. Because you should've at least said "Hi, Ron, you rock!" or something. But you still saw him, and, well, that's cool enough. <3
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 07:46 pm (UTC)R: Um, did you need something?
SAB: What?
R: 'Cause you're staring at me.
SAB: Oh, that's just because you're fucking gorgeous, sorry.
Sadly, it was not to be. *g*
no subject
Date: 2004-04-02 04:13 am (UTC)R: Um, did you need something?
RM: What?
R: 'Cause you're staring at me.
RM: Oh, yeah, you see, I'm just picturing Damien Lewis right next to you.
R: ...huh?!
RM: And your in military drab... and it's cold... maybe you're in Bastogne, or something... yup...you're keeping him warm, your arms around him, rubbing his back...only inches away... you lean in...he kisses you... it's quick... "Oh Winters, I love you!"
R: (gets up and leaves, completely freaked out)
You could've handled it much better than I could've. Because I would've totally said something like that. I had a dream I saw Donnie Wahlberg somewhere and told him that he belonged with Spiers and in my dream Donnie laughed but IRl? Not so funny.
There's always next time. Just don't stalk him.
..ok, stalk him.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 07:12 pm (UTC)Oh, and I have a copy of the movie on VHS if you want to watch it sometime. *g*
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 07:46 pm (UTC)(And, yes, on the movie. *g*)
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 07:56 pm (UTC)Figuring if he looked at me and looked bored I could say, "oh, do you want the paper?" As it's not nice to leave the boy with nothing to read. But he went back to his boat thing, so, alas.
But the bottom line is, of course, we were scarcely one LA Weekly's worth of distance apart, and still *facepalm*. Nada.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-03 12:26 pm (UTC)Makes for a great story though!
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 08:49 pm (UTC)Then again, I'd have peed in my pants, so maybe I'll just.. continue my admiring-from-a-distance-preferably-an-ocean thing.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-01 09:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-02 12:30 am (UTC)So, yeah. Silence = good.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-02 01:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-02 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-02 06:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-02 08:50 am (UTC)still. it was ron livingston. and that's pretty fucking cool.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-03 06:44 am (UTC)His wallet stuck out of his ass jeans pocket, a leather checkbook-sized billfold with some tooling in a flowery design.
I can so imagine that!
and how good his arse looked in those jeans.You are a great giver of detail.no subject
Date: 2004-04-04 03:00 pm (UTC)