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.

Leaving La-La Land - Part Two

Our final day offered the most anxiously awaited excursion, and by 9:45am, we were gliding into our parking spot in Lot Woody at Disneyland. I felt like skipping into the park, I was so excited! I’d been once before, but over at least 12 years back. We hurried through the entrance, and the first thing I set my eyes on was MICKEY. He had a line to his left for those as eager as I who wanted a picture. I jumped right in, oddly nervous.

“Sorry. Mickey’s line is closed,” the indignant woman in wayfarers barked at me.

“Oh. Ok. Umm… well in that case… well, there are more than one Mickeys in the park today, right?” I was fumbling over my words.

Pause. Glare. Shock. Horror.

“No. There is only one… Mickey.”

“Oh,” I muttered. “That doesn’t seem that efficient for such a big park. Thanks anyway.”

One Disney celebrity sighting down, but no interaction to boot. We rounded the corner to come upon Minnie standing 10 feet in front of us. After one failed encounter, I was determined to go talk to her and to hopefully get a photo. I started in her direction, but just as I took one step, she took two. Within seconds, she started hauling ass, and as she navigated through the crowd and into a cartoon alleyway. I lost her. Confusion. WHAT THE HECK!? Two key Disney players down, neither of which seemed to want to talk to me, or anyone else for that matter.

Onward. We made a ninja dash for Space Mountain, and after seemingly no wait time, found ourselves strapped in and ready for our intergalactic adventure. Had we not been in the pitch black, evidence would have described my likeness to nothing other than a Basset Hound with its head out the window, lips flapping and bearing a dopey perma-smile. It was unbelievable! If this is the wonder and excitement children felt, well… it’s no wonder this is the Happiest Place on Earth.

We visited Fantasyland next, and caught a fleeting glimpse of Snow White. I was going to get a picture with this broad if it was the last thing I did. Lizzy and I practically tripped over each other trying to catch her, but again to no avail. She scurried across a fantasy bridge and ducked into her castle untouched. The sign read “Snow White and Seven Dwarfs ONLY.” Now, this was starting to get silly. Three big-time Disney sightings, and not a single one I could catch. I’m quick on my feet – hell,  I just ran a half marathon – but it was no use.  I hit up the nearest gift shop to purchase Minnie ears for the day and rid myself of the temporary disappointment I was feeling.

Game time. If these bastards aren’t going to interact with me, I’m going to ride every ride I’d hoped for. We explored Toontown, Roger Rabbit’s Car Toon Spin, It’s a Small World, Indiana Jones, Alice in Wonderland’s Mad Teacups, the Swiss Family Robinson’s Tree house, Big Thunder, Pirates of the Caribbean and the Toy Story Ride. Most reminiscent, I found, was the Swiss Family Robinson Tree house. And of course, my all time favorite, the wonder of “It’s a Small World.”

And at the end of it all - I found a second Mickey. This one - willing to give me the time of day. 

We departed chilly, but more than happy, and with the assurance that while having consumed popcorn, pretzels and gumbo, we hoofed it across the majority of the park for the better part of nine hours.

LA – I can’t seem to let go of our love-hate relationship, and maybe I never will.  Story of my life. 

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.