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.