Land of the Smog
It's late November, they're predicting rain tomorrow afternoon, and I can't tell the difference between the fog we hit in Stockton and the foggy smog here in LA. It's funny how a pattern gets established, and even if circumstances conspire to abort the pattern, things feel like old hat upon your return.
That's how I felt nearly every step of the way from Sactown to LA. Though I didn't drive, and had the lovely company of Alicia and Matte and the entirety of the latest David Sedaris book, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, I still arrived here with painfully popping ears from flying through the grapevine and marveled at just how much more time there is to get from Magic Mountain to La Cienega. I breezed into Greg's place, greeted by the usual hug at the door, plopped my bags on the mini-futon, and made a beeline for the potty. I haven't done that in almost two years, but nothing has really changed. Routine revisited can be a nice thing.
After I'd refreshed myself and picked up my overpriced rental car (because really, should I pay $25 a day to drive the same car I already own?), I made my customary round of phonecalls to all the basindwellers I always call when I arrive. Those bitches better call me back. Just kidding. It's nice to be back.