Tawny Little in the Glendale galleria, like Hemingway in Pamplona,
drinkng tawny port, Tawny shops. Ernest had his drug, she has
hers. Tawny, who has tap danced, recited, and exhibited her way
to the pinnacle of american female beauty, now finds herself among
the masses, among whom she is replicated by the millions, as in
Circuit City, where on any morning her face may appear by the
hundreds and now she is here, in the Galleria, with her sycophantic
companion in singular fleshly form.

Why is Tawny Little? For what purpose does this being be? Does
she inform me or does she incite me? Do I lust after photons
and other radiation that streams forth from my TV as if it were
a divine wind? Is there evil in her heart? Does she have any
principles as she trades the sanctity of her soul for TV stardom
in the form of banality and bufoonery in the forenoon, setting
the curls of minds to hibernate electronically for another day?

Tawny, in the Galleria, patent leather pumps, adorned with a
large chunk of lapis lazuli, in a purple suit, her breast
emblazoned by a silver broach.

Would she marry me, give up the life of make up rooms and harsh
lights, in front of peering electro-optics, behind cardboard
desks, pronouncing the existential silliloquies of LA life,
filling up miles of video tape each day with pointless babble,
give it up for a life of anonymity, of self efficacy, coated with
raw egg whites and desert dust? Give up TV stardom and be with
me, in a life of raw and spontaneous lust, humping impulsively on
an old matress in the back of a beat up Ford Econoline, its seats
soaked with her anxious and impatient oozings, which are unmasked
and unwashed, spreading forth upon their dried predecessors, the
soft hairs of her long since shaven legs glistening with the dew
of her passions, which radiate for every pore?

No.

No, the camera will still roll and with the dawn of a new weekday:
the formation of a new gridlock, the opening of another galleria
or mall, the painting of another fingernail, the drip of another
drop into another pot of Mr. Coffee, the disarming of another car
alarm, the bouncing of another check, the opening of another line
of credit, the heating of another curling iron, the tooting of
another line, the deformation of another Nipponese auto body,
the rising of another elevator, another refusal, another acceptance,
new smoke, new haze, another state of flux, another self serve car
wash, another paper or plastic dilemma in a supermarket queue.

Tawny will again be there and not with me, in front of the lights
and not entwined in serpentine passion in the dust and gravel of
an ocotillo and rock garden of earthly delights, for she is but
a chimera, that was not her in the galleria, it was me, and she
is within me as an erstwhile hallucination.

One day Tawny will be old, her flesh will be languid and cold, and
makeup will not clothe her sins, she will cease to menstruate,
her hair will fall out, leaving behind inflammed splotches covered
with green and festering microbes. She will rot and the air will
recombine her to primeval ooze.