Los Angeles

I like this city, where I live. It's small enough that I don't have to drive miles and miles to find something to do, or something to see. And it is large enough that I can jump in my car and go for a drive north to where it meets Carson and the BP oil refineries, or south to where, just before that final bend of PCH, I can watch a good movie before actually having to step into Orange County. I like it.

Maybe today I ought to stay in it.

My best friend is in town and she's already texted me a couple of times. My nephew is sleeping in the other room as I type this. The plan is to into Los Angeles and watch SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE UNIVERSE with her and her friend (I don't even know what to call him, even a year later), maybe have a snack or two afterward.

I'm upset and angry and sad and terribly irrational right now and I want to drive around Ocean Boulevard, into Naples, where the multimillion dollar homes are and walk through the neighborhood, see people give me curious glances. I want to drive all the way to Lakewood and Downey, scour my new working grounds and maybe have bad Chinese food from my favorite bad Chinese food place across the street from the mall and maybe even stop by and say hello to my new boss. I want to drive all the way into Wilmington, because no one ever knows where Wilmington is and try to remember what it was like walking home from school. Maybe take a side-trip into the outskirts of town, near San Pedro, where the bar from FIGHT CLUB once stood. I want to drive up the Vincent Thomas bridge and avoid all of the big-rigs and drive at the speed limit and listen to the new playlist (my first ever made on itunes); this was a favorite drive of mine. Maybe go through all of downtown Long Beach, park somewhere, have myself a good screaming and crying session before flirting with that girl behind the counter at The Library. Drive through Belmont Shore and fritter away at the sunny and crisp weather out today, wander into a shop I've never been in before but leave because I'll realize why I've never been in it before. I'll scowl at the hipsters and yuppies everywhere in their leggings and scarves even though it's still seventy degrees out. I should drive up Fourth Street, and its little bits of wanna be counterculture will amuse me and distract me with its terrible taste. I should go up and down MLK Boulevard, see if I remember where Damian used to live and see what looks I get from the homeboys as I drive my dirty as fuck and beat to shit car through their one way streets and sagging pants. And then, finally, I'll drive home. And it won't be dark out yet. It's all an illusion, all of this, imagined for my benefit and as an excuse as to why I don't want to be in Los Angeles today.

I love Los Angeles. Just not today.