Timothy

"1994. It was on Hollywood Boulevard, kitty-corner from Musso and Frank's, where Faulkner’s martinis seep out of dark wood.But I was across the street, across the tenderloin riff-raff of the Boulevard, through a generation of Armenian and Israeli and Korean and Arab t-shirt shops, in one of those two-story buildings that noir detective stories were written in. Transom. Cracked white-tile bathrooms.The sweat of Boardner’s Bar seeps through these floorboards.The smoky rankness was like a fondly recalled lover--which is more than you can say for Faulkner. It’s the smell of that moment in some bar, long ago, when a clever young gal, anxious for my attention, compared my letters to Stegner, Carver and Brautigan all wrapped into one.Or so I tried to sell myself--to keep going amidst the stench."