Someone needs to tell Californians that in a situation like that, 80mph down a winding canyon road at night is not appropriate driving technique. I'd tell them, but I was too busy clenching my steering wheel in white-knuckled fear. Not fear that I'd lose control of my car, because I'm an old hand at bad-weather driving. No, fear that someone else would skid out like a kid on a sled and take me out.
Monday after Christmas no one was at the studio, though I came in and couldn't get in without a key. So, I explored Burbank and then holed up in a coffee shop, figuring to get some writing done. No sooner had the trusty laptop battery started to fade, necessitating my packing up and making a move elsewhere, when a friend from Philly (the Telemarketer of Love, for those who know to whom I am referring) called me, telling me he was headed for Hollywood Boulevard. On my way to meet up with him, it occurred to that on both occasions in LA, when feeling a little lonely and isolated, a friend appeared. If I lived in the LA of Steve Martin's "LA Story" this would lead me to believe that LA is taking care of me. As I don't live in Stever Martin's "LA Story" LA, I chose not to believe it, though I certainly entertained the notion.
So I spent the day knocking around Hollywood Boulevard, and then went to meet up with a bunch of internet friends to watch Monday Night Football. (Go Eagles! Ok, they lost, but still...) The drive home was a white-knuckled log-flume ride.
Yesterday was much the same, except without the friends. I explored, and then scrambled to make accomodations for my cat, who got dumped with a friend at the last minute due to 11th hour changes in my plan for moving out -- and has now worn out her welcome. My Uncle isn't crazy about the cat being in his house, something for which I am now feverishly seeking the solution. But today I'm in the studio, and there's work to do.