EXT. SANTA MONICA PADDLE TENNIS COURTS. LATE AFTERNOON.
Two older white men and a black woman sit on one of the municipal benches at the Venice Beach paddle tennis courts; the men, JIM RUSH and SMITTY SMITH sit shoulder to shoulder facing the woman. The woman, LA RAE KELLOG, wields her Blackberry in one hand so that she may gesticulate with her free hand. Whatever they are talking about, the tone is jovial, playful--almost congenial.
The bench is situated at the far end of the courts. The courts are caged-in hemispheres of three courts wide by two courts deep (There are other benches, but none has a tree shade as generous as the one which concerns us now, or as formidable a parking access).
We see a tall Chicano man, ART ESTRADA, late fifties, and (what appears to be) an apprentice, JON MINI COOPER, come out of a 1984 Black Ford Bronco. Before reaching the bench they talk and the apprentice walks off. He does so exaggeratedly, rattles off a txt message, converses with the asphalt.
So, I was thinking, if laughing gas were to condense into a liquid,
what liquid would it make? What should we call the liquid state
of laughing gas? Purely as a matter of speculation of course...
You seen Greg?
I seen him earlier, around the same time you saw him taking
A Spanglish blog dedicated to the works, ruminations, and mongrel pyrotechnics of Yago S. Cura, an Argentine-American poet, translator, publisher & futbol cretin. Yago publishes Hinchas de Poesia, an online literary journal, & is the sole proprietor of Hinchas Press.