In Memory

"Don't hang up," I pleaded at the last second.
"Oh, okay," he said casually. "Let me fix my drink."
I listened to him get out of bed and light a cigarette.
"Just walking to the kitchen," he reported.
"Sounds good … love you."
"Love you too."

I met Kent in 1985. We both worked at the Ken Cinema in San Diego. He was a projectionist and I made popcorn. We eventually learned that both of us loved to boogie. So we played records and danced until 2am. And then we kissed on the couch that belonged to his roommate, Ernie.

For 40 years we remembered that night—along with the get downs, the reefer and the booze. This was our glue.

I became a Barry White fan thanks to DJ Kent on Monday nights at the Whistle Stop—which was a casual, low lit gay bar in South Park. Kent would invariably coax The Prince of Pillow Talk to whisper some smooth over the PA system that lorded over a well worn checkered dance floor: "I've heard people say that, too much of anything is no good for you, baby … but, I don't know about that.” Kent and I believed in the creed:

We can’t get enough of that L-O-V-E

I cherish my record collection. And I probably (👀, girrrrrl) have some of Kent's vinyl in the bins. This makes me happy.

Kent Landis Hartman (1953–2025)

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Pop the Hood

This path? This path I'm walking on?

It takes me to the market, that's what it does—despite the ticklish ascent. Thankfully I have these headphones pumping out deep, soulful house, so I boogie up that hill no matter how steep it is. Been doing the plank, you know, flexing that core. The work—gets me where I gots to go. Sure enough though, $40 dollars, it’s what I have in my pocket. And I’m proud of that. Pushed around some snow the other day. So yeah. I know I need a lemon. I'll figure out the rest after I make me a complimentary cup of coffee at the customer service desk, with the raw sugar and the oat milk—so generous, but also: check your rear-view, tend to those side mirrors, because you just might get an elbow in the rib if you’re not swizzle-sticking fast enough. So I bide my time and observe, entertained by the ballet of self determination and civility while simultaneously pondering my provisions list. You see, I consider myself a connoisseur of sorts: pine nuts, sun dried tomatoes, these kinda things. Just last week I bought this righteous bag of Nicaraguan dark roast thanks to a timely bit of freelance, which was auspicious, considering, on that very same day, I helped a friend move out of their shanty because the roof collapsed after twelve nights of relentless cats and dogs. My sodden comrade, so compassionate, just trying to make ends meet. Anyways, it’s a happy ending—because now we're shackin’ up!—dancing about the kitchen, praising our good fortune, preparing the mise en place. But enough about sustenance:

Where is the path taking you?

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Speed Dating

SCENE [Adagio]

They sit on the curb, admiring the storefronts, sipping coffee and smoking cloves.

CHARLOTTE. Cute.
ELLIOTT. I feel like we should go there.
CHARLOTTE. It looks closed.
ELLIOTT. Ummm, maybe tomorrow?
CHARLOTTE. We must get coffee again.
ELLIOTT. Oh yes.
CHARLOTTE. Date number two then, I’m excited!

ELLIOTT. [Blushing] It's entirely made of books. 
CHARLOTTE. The Christmas tree in the window?
ELLIOTT. Isn’t it yummy?
CHARLOTTE. I want that inked on my neck.
ELLIOTT. Brilliant! The part about?
CHARLOTTE. ‘Made of books.’
ELLIOTT. [Gasping] I just wet myself … I know a place.
CHARLOTTE. [Giggling] We’re basically engaged.

ELLIOTT. [Passing the cig] Praise her.
CHARLOTTE. [Taking a puff] Just as I am.

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