In hot pursuit of a place called home.

The feeling of "home" is an interesting emotion, one which seems to fade in your 20's... especially, if you're like me and move from city to city. I remember when I lived in Arkansas, the company I was interning for actually did field research on this idea of home; in many instances, people didn't describe a physical place, but instead, a feeling of being near family, or otherwise emotional connections they had with the people, the culture, etc. For me, a self-admitted literalist, it's perhaps always been more about a physical place (and sometimes certain foods, like loaded baked potatoes). But as I've moved far away from my home town - the past few times on my own - one of the first things I find myself relentlessly seeking, is that irreplaceable comfort and sense of place.

This past week, as I've continued to yet another city - one which I cursed, badmouthed and looked down on for a good portion of my adult life - I found myself starting to open up to the possibility that Los Angeles could someday get there. 

The operative word being, possibility. LA definitely has a long way to go. A resident for all of 9 days, it's been entertaining and intimidating getting acquainted with my new digs. Things feel alien from any place I've ever resided, comical in myriad ways, and mostly, like a permanent vacation. Some of my initial observations might take some settling-in to, in good ways, and some less-so. 

Like being fully clothed in my beach neighborhood - very uncouth. Talking on the phone while driving - not allowed! Or the reality that everything actually is overly picturesque and beautiful -- and we're talking everything... hedge-lined grocery cart holder lanes, ornate bus stops the size of my bedroom, you name it.

Or dumpster diving - a completely acceptable full-time gig (although it shouldn't be hard to get these heathens on my side, given my glass consumption track record). Surf boards decorate most cars. Streets are silly names, like Sepulveda and Rosecrans. Parking and traffic - of utmost importance and integral in every conversation I'd had so far. 

And there are also the things I can get used to, of course... like super, super friendly neighbors, and lobster abundance [so long as you avoid the innards]... 

...Mountainside and beachside jogging paths...

...And patio-time on steroids (epic location for crosswording).

So far from where I sit, it feels a lot more like a quaint beach town than that of the bustling metropolis of Los Angeles. If I can keep it that way... we might have some real promise for a beautiful friendship. 

A lesson I've learned already - things aren't always only what they seem. And it doesn't hurt to eat a baked potato, too. Just in case.

"Live Slow"

There's a distinct disposition in Phoenix come late April that feels a little bit like black Friday.  The weather is still gorgeous. The sun-filled days extend to nearly 14 hours. And everything is in bloom. Slowly, the panic seems to set in as we realize our days of this glory are numbered, and all at once -- the most important thing to do is enjoy as much of it as quickly as possible. As every ticking second passes, the summer could hit. Most of the city seems to operate in a near-panic, filling up hiking trails, outdoor patios, open-roofed stadiums... even sidewalks. 

Naturally, I've been playing my part as a crazed Phoenician, even putting in overtime on my front patio most nights. And it was in this very outdoor frenzy that I came across a rather offensive t-shirt slogan. There I was, minding my own business in a hike up the Squaw Peak trail, tuned into a witty podcast on Lady Pilots, and otherwise enjoying the lovely weather. My pace was slowed by a hiker refusing to let me by and I noticed the back of her t-shirt - "Live Slow." 

Beside the phrase being a disgraceful grammatical slur, I also found myself disagreeing with the intention of it quite a lot. "Live Slow." In my daily life, I mostly dislike slow anything: slow people, slow drivers, slow hikers (ahem – lady), slow talkers, slow check out workers, slow technology, slow songs, slow-to-dry finger nail polish... the list could go on and on and on. What bothered me too though, was that it seemed what she was really trying to get across was actually to enjoy life, but if you really “live slow,” by the time you get to wherever it is you’re going, aren't you actually going to have less time to enjoy whatever it is you're doing? Come on.

Or maybe, her slogan was a play off of Lance Armstrong's Live Strong. That’s even more annoying.  

I was finally able to make my way around this lunatic, but not her irritating message. I started wondering about the types of individuals who wear t-shirts for the sole purpose of a personal manifesto. And when they do – is that message intended as a reminder for themselves, or as a pontification for an innocent passerby? 

In any case, she deserves a big F minus. #FAIL #GoBackToEnglishClass 

Leaving La-La Land - Part One

It’s been an eventful weekend in the City of Angels, and as I scan the frightfully reminiscent Terminal 1 in LAX - and curse them for not having Wifi - I’m also a bit sad to be leaving Los Angeles. This is not a feeling I’m accustomed to while in, or even near LAX, the most despised and badmouthed airport in Possum Hunting history. But, here I am.

The weekend was supposed to be eventful, really. I came to catch up with an old buddy from Arizona I hadn’t seen in over a year – Miss Lizzy - and we had ourselves booked solid. The game plan included beach-side brunches, live TV tapings, deep sea fishing, Disneyland and a marathon of beer drinking in between. That left for little down time, which is precisely the way I like to spend my days.

We were greeted Friday by a gorgeous day and a sunny drive up the PCH to meet a friend for brunch in Malibu. It just sounds so glamorous, and it was, which in my life typically means I’ll find some way to bring things back to the comfort level of a poolside barbecue. We spent most of the meal talking about the eerie scratching noise I’ve been hearing in my attic, speculating how much stand-in actors’ annual salary could be and the idea of consuming possum sandwiches on Fear Factor. It was glorious.

We were met with even more glory later that evening, as we pounded through the alley behind Hollywood Boulevard to access the backstage area of the Jimmy Kimmel Show. Yes – I’m awesome, and a nerd, and couldn’t have been more amped for our passes to the Green Room. The only appropriate attire, I felt, was skin-tight black leggings, a black top and leopard heels; I was like cat woman.  And the show had my mind thoroughly blown. Yes, this was the guy I see on TV and he’s actually kind of fine, and wait wait waitttt… he’s…he’s going off of a script! I mean, I knew the show wasn’t entirely impromptu, but he’s actually reading word for word on a teleprompter in his monologue.  

Whatever. I wasn’t going to do the dwelling thing, and despite feeling duped and like a naïve idiot (similar to the time I went to a live comedy show and fell in love with the comedian, only to YouTube him later and find him telling the very jokes he amused me with to an audience in California) we were several free drinks in, and charged ahead (quite literally, you might imagine). Amazing sushi, really great conversation, an attempted drunken email deployment to an ex followed by an interception of said drunken email by my [AMAZING] friend before deploying, annnd… bed.

I woke up Saturday with a headache. And it was raining. Perfect. That meant no deep sea fishing and opened up the possibilities to bigger and better things, like Bloody Marys and brunch with an old coworker in town for the week on a TV shoot. Brunch turned into lunch of sorts, which led well into the afternoon. As the weather cleared up, we ventured to a patio nearby, situated ourselves under heating lamps, inundated ourselved with local brew [see accompanying image] and watched the sun slowly set. By dusk, my coworker’s college roommate had joined us; let’s call him Mr. Music Man. As has been the case lately, no afternoon of leisure such as this has slipped through my grasp without a little drama. Why break the trend? Some would regard Mr. Music Man a good deal older than me, but it’d been what seemed like years since I’d partaken in flirtation with a semi-stranger. And he was Southern, confident and conveniently seated to my left. Why not? The evening progressed to a local dive bar, rounds of whiskey, jukeboxes and ensuing demands for Neil Diamond and Rod Stewart. Mr. Music Man gave me a kiss on the forehead at the conclusion of the night, and I clambered down the LA streets with Lizzy towards home, completely satisfied. I still had it.

"Leaving La-La Land - Part Two" to follow.